

Class. _22a 


Book 



GopightN°._ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


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Refractory Husbands 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

Just For Two 

Little Stories of Courtship 
Little Stories of Married Life 
More Stories of Married Life 
The Suburban Whirl, 

and Other Stories of Mar- 
ried Life 
The Unforeseen 
The Wayfarers 






















































. 























“Oh, if you do , Fm afraid I wont love you any more /” 

[Meeting the Dogl 




3&etrattorp ^usbanbs 

£parp £>tetoart cutting 



Garden City New York 


DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 


1913 




Copyright , 1913, by 

Doubleday, Page & Company 

All rights reserved , including that of 
translation into foreign languages, 
including the Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT, IQI2, I913, THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1913, THE AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1912, THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, igil, 1913, THE RIDGWAY COMPANY 


* • 


©CLA354384 f 

A <) v* 


Contents 

PAGE 

When Aunt Mary Came 3 

A Friend of the Married 27 

Father's Little Joke 49 

Marie Twists the Key 75 

Meeting the Dog 101 

Marrying Willow 127 

Thursday 157 

Bunny's Bag 185 

The Blossoming Rod 21 1 


s 



Refractory Husbands 



When Aunt Mary Came 

TIIJII^HEN Aunt Mary comes, Preston, 
MM you will just have to go to church !” 

Pretty Mrs. Chandor’s tone was that 
of one nerved for combat. 

“Anything you say,” remarked her husband 
absently, with his eye still glued to the magazine 
he was reading in the waning light, as he sat on 
the piazza in a chair that was slightly tilted 
to allow for the comfortable placing of his feet 
on the railing, revealing an expanse of cadet- 
blue lisle stocking, matching his necktie, above 
the low, speckless patent-leather shoes. Mrs. 
Chandor’s eye rested on him with a momentary 
esthetic pleasure, in the midst of her harassment; 
she never had to implore her husband to go and 
make himself “look nice,” as Lucia Bannard was 
obliged to. Late shadows were lying across the 
pretty, smooth lawn; the wistaria lifted lan- 
guidly in the dying breeze; from nearby came 
the sound of little boys’ voices laughing and 
calling in some merry game. Everything was 
at peace but Elinor Chandor’s mind. 

“Preston, put down that book ! It’s too dark 

[3] 


Refractory Husbands 


for you to read, anyway. I was just saying that 
when Aunt Mary came you’d have to begin and 
go to church again. Besides, what would she 
think of me if you didn’t? It would simply 
break her heart — she wouldn’t understand at 
all. Not that I understand it myself — I never 
have! How a man, brought up as you were by 
her, can reconcile it to his conscience to stay 
away from church as you have lately — Sunday 
after Sunday! Do you realize how long it is 
since you were in one?” 

“I haven’t any idea,” said her husband 
genially. 

“Well, I was thinking about it just the other 
day. It’s nearly three years!” Mrs. Chandor 
paused, with a little tremulousness in the last 
words. “Of course I know it began that winter 
when I was ill so much and we had Dr. Gleamer 
for rector. I know his delivery was dreadful, 
and he never said anything; but you stay home 
now just because you’ve got into the habit of 
staying home; you won’t go and see for yourself 
how changed everything is, and hear what good 
sermons Mr. Owen preaches, and what lovely 
music we have — you just couldn’t help liking 
it. I know people blame me for not having more 
influence over you ! Oh, they do ! I know it is 
partly my fault; but it is so hard for me to make 
you do anything you don’t want to do.” 

Mrs. Chandor paused once more, and looked 

[4] 


When Aunt Mary Came 


at him piteously. “I wouldn’t have Aunt 
Mary know for worlds! Why, she’d never get 
over it — and she’s done so much for you always. 
I cannot have her hurt.” 

“Well, if you think it’s necessary ” began 

Mr. Chandor doubtfully. He reached over, 
and took his wife’s hand, pressing his thumb on 
each of her soft knuckles in turn, in a way that 
with him expressed affection, while his gaze took 
note of her upturned blue eyes, her soft, ripply 
hair, and the slight feminine droop of her head to 
one side, which gave a suggestion of depend- 
ence. Mr. Chandor thought his wife exactly 
right; he had a permanent satisfaction, when he 
looked at her, in his choice. 

“It does seem” — his voice rose argumen- 
tatively — “as if I might have one morning to 
do as I pleased in, after slaving all the week.” 

“Preston, how you act! Why on earth you 
should make such a fuss I can’t see. You don’t 
have to work as hard as that! And just be- 
cause you like to lounge around all Sunday 
morning! Yes, I do think it’s necessary. If 
you want to spoil Aunt Mary’s visit entirely — 
and it would ” 

“Oh, all right, all right; I’ll do it, of course,” 
said her husband resignedly. “Now the sub- 
ject’s closed.” 

“You promise me faithfully you will go to 
church with Aunt Mary while she’s here? ” 

[5] 


Refractory Husbands 


“Yes, I’ll promise. She shall do anything 
with me that she wants,” said Mr. Chandor with 
emphasis. “And I hope you’re satisfied now.” 
He drew his wife’s chair a little closer to him, 
and put his arm around her. “Poor girl, she 
has an awful time with her husband, hasn’t she? 
Pity she didn’t get a better one while she was 
about it.” 

“Oh, when you talk that way!” said his wife 
disdainfully unimpressed, yet yielding sweetly 
to the caress. 

When it came down to it, she didn’t think 
there was a better man in the world than 
Preston. 

But she suddenly sat up straight as she saw a 
lady and gentleman approaching up the path, 
and gave her chair a little hitch away. 

“ Good evening, Mrs. Crandall. Good even- 
ing, Mr. Crandall!” 

“You and your husband always seem to have 
so much to say to each other,” said Mrs. Cran- 
dall, a nice-looking young woman with tired 
eyes, glancing now at her husband, a short square 
man with dark hair and an impassive counte- 
nance. “No, don’t get up! We can’t stay; I 
just stopped to give you this, Mrs. Chandor.” 
She handed over a paper. “It’s one of the new 
Sunday-school leaflets; I hear you’re to take 
Miss Green’s class while she’s away. We all 
think it so charming of you. You ought to come 
[ 6 ] 


When Aunt Mary Came 


to church next Sunday, Mr. Chandor! Will 
is going to sing a solo in the new anthem; it’s 
by Elgar; the most exquisite thing! — some- 
thing above the heads of the congregation, I 
fear! But I suppose there is hardly any use 
in asking you.” 

“Yes, better come, and hear me,” said Mr. 
Crandall, speaking for the first time and puffing 
out his chest. 

“Why, I’ve just promised Elinor that I’d be 
there,” said Mr. Chandor meditatively, “but if 

I have tohearyour old bass growl, Crandall ” 

He reached over and clapped the other on the 
shoulder, and both men grinned comfortably, 
while the two women exchanged confidential 
glances of question and assent, and then con- 
gratulation on the part of the visitor. 

“I’ll tell Dr. Owen to get at that sermon 
he’s aways promised to preach for you, you old 
sinner,” announced Mr. Crandall. “Come 
on, Nell, we must be getting home to the chil- 
dren. Hello, here’s your boy! How are you, 
Teddy?” 

“For goodness’ sake, don’t look at him,” said 
Mrs. Chandor dejectedly. Teddy was one of 
those small boys who, let forth immaculate from 
a mother’s hand at five o’clock, freshly bathed 
and brushed, and dressed in white linen, re- 
appears in half an hour, his clothing soaked and 
limp with perspiration, and streaked with dust 

[7] 


Refractory Husbands 


from his matted hair to his shoes. From thence 
until bedtime his progression was unspeakable; 
there were nightly talks on the necessity of 
improvement. Lucile, her seven-year-old girl, 
really liked to be clean; Mrs. Chandor couldn’t 
help wondering sometimes why it was so hard to 
make any impression on the masculine nature ! 

If Preston’s friends had been of the non- 
churchgoing variety, his defection might have 
been the less obvious, but most of their little 
circle were interested in St. Stephen’s. Will 
Crandall had been a choir-boy, and the habit 
still clung to him; not to sing in a choir would 
have dropped him out into the open wastes of 
life, where he had no accredited place. Dick 
Durland, who came over every Monday night 
to play chess with Preston, was a vestryman, 
although he wasn’t half as well fitted to be an 
officer of the church as Preston. Jolly, middle- 
aged Mr. Brentwood, was a pillar of the parish 
as well as of trade; even Mr. Minott, who 
had been “ something else” before he married 
Minnie Chase, attended services — intermit- 
tently, it is true, but still, he attended; Mr. 
Owen, the rector, was a frequent visitor of their 
next-door neighbours, the Bannards. And Pres- 
ton put his hands in his pockets as frequently as 
any one when he was asked for subscriptions! 
His wife was proud of that, as of many other 
things about him. 

[ 8 ] 


When Aunt Mary Came’ 


Every one seemed to know by the next day 
that Mr. Chandor would be seen at church the 
following Sunday. 

Mr. Durland jocularly asked if he should send 
an additional envelope for the collection, and 
Mr. Owen, meeting Preston in the street as the 
latter was coming home from the train, said, 
with a cordial greeting, that he was already 
working hard on that sermon! 

Elinor Chandor, with prophetic vision, could 
see everybody waiting to shake hands with 
Preston as he left the sanctuary — she hoped 
they wouldn’t be too effusive! She had a sud- 
den fear that Lucia Bannard, who was an emo- 
tional young woman, though married, might 
even, in an excess of religious fervour, present 
Preston with some commemorative emblem or a 
book of devotion, to mark the event, and thus 
unalterably revolt the boyish shyness which 
dwells in the inner recesses of the nature of the 
real man, and keep him forever from repeating 
the action. There was a rapt, far-away gleam 
in Lucia’s eye, when she had spoken of it that 
morning, that might bode anything. But 
Elinor was; sure that if things were left in a normal 
state Preston would get in the habit of going to 
St. Stephen’s once more, when he found out 
how changed it was; he couldn’t help liking it 
now. It was time indeed that Aunt Mary came ! 

Aunt Mary was a large, fresh-coloured, gray- 

[9] 


Refractory Husbands 


haired lady, who looked her age — which she 
always proclaimed on every occasion — only 
in the way of becoming it. Her nephew averred 
that when he was a little boy he thought Aunt 
Mary’s lap the most comfortable place in the 
world, and she still preserved this characteristic 
for all childhood. Their elders always had the 
feeling, after her arrival, that, if everything wasn’t 
exactly right, it was going to be; she knew so 
many infallibly best ways of reaching perfection 
that all you needed was to make a little pleasing 
extra exertion to get there. 

Her loud, clear voice and cheerful presence 
seemed to bring an atmosphere of agreeable 
competency. 

“ Indeed, the journey was nothing,” she 
affirmed, when, dinner finished, she was com- 
fortably bestowed by her nephew and niece 
in the biggest armchair on the piazza, with 
Lucile, a small-faced girl with gigantic butterfly 
bows on each side of her head, hanging on the 
arm of every one’s chair in turn, as well as on the 
converse of her elders. 

“ There was a very kind young man who 
carried my bag for me — of course, there was no 
porter in sight! As I told him, when a woman 
is sixty-eight years of age she appreciates a 
courtesy. He said he was a student in the 
Theological Seminary, and I assured him of 
the pleasure it gave me, in these days when 


When Aunt Mary Came 


young men are so lax, to find one who was pre- 
paring for the sacred calling of the ministry. 
He had such red eyes that I offered him my 
recipe for eye-lotion — it is so inexpensive and 
simple that no one should be without it.” 

“How very kind of you, Aunt Mary,” 
murmured Elinor. 

“It is especially excellent for children as a 
preventive,” continued the visitor. “I was 
just noticing Lucile’s eyes. Aunt Mary will 
prepare some of the lotion for you to-morrow, 
dear;” she patted the child’s hand affectionately. 
“We’ll put it in a cunning little bottle. I have 
one in my trunk; it has a glass stopper with a 
blue ribbon around it; and I have chocolate 
drops for a little girl who remembers to use it ! 
— just the plain kind, Elinor, they won’t 
hurt her.” 

“How attractive you always make every little 
thing, Aunt Mary,” said Elinor, half enviously. 
“Doesn’t she, Preston?” 

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed affectionately. 

“My dear, ft’s the little things that it pays to 
take trouble about, ’f said Aunt Mary benignly. 
“By the way, speaking of the ministry, what 
kind of a rector have you now, Preston?” 

“Mr. Owen is a very nice fellow,” answered 
her nephew sincerely. 

“When I was here before, there was a 
good deal of dissatisfaction with Dr. Gleamer. 

in] 


Refractory Husbands 


Many people had stopped going to church on 
account of him; and when that kind of habit 
once begins” — Aunt Mary sighed heavily — 
“ there’s no knowing where it will stop. It’s 
the evil of the age. ” 

“ Papa’s going to church next Sunday,” 
carolled Lucile, throwing herself with precipitate 
affection at that parent. “ Papa’s going to 
church, aren’t you, papa?” Her immense 
butterfly bows quivered wildly. “He’s going 
to walk to church with you , Aunt Mary!” 

Aunt Mary’s look of growing surprise at 
Lucile’s first statement relaxed into one of 
smiling appreciation. 

“Why, of course, he is, the dear boy,” she sup- 
plemented; “he doesn’t have his old aunt to 
escort every day,” while Elinor said with en- 
forced sweetness: 

“Run away, Lucile, at once, darling, and see 
what little brother is doing.” 

“Do you like your Mr. Owen’s sermons, 
Preston?” pursued Aunt Mary. 

“Best I’ve heard in years,” said her nephew 
blandly. 

“And is the music good?” 

“Every one says it’s fine.” 

“Well, you are fortunate,” said Aunt Mary. 
She looked with fond affection at her niece and 
nephew. 

“It is delightful to find myself here with you 

[ 12 ] 


When Aunt Mary Came 


again, and also to find you, Preston, the same 
dear, good boy you always were, so devoted to 
your church. Remind me, Elinor, when we go 
upstairs to-night, to ask you for an ordinary 
rubber band — you doubtless have plenty in 
your desk; I saw that the catch of one of the 
shutters in my room was slightly loose, and a 
rubber band will secure it nicely. And before 
I forget it, I want to say that I am going to make 
an old-fashioned rice pudding for you the first 
thing in the morning, so that it will be cold by 
dinner time; I heard you say, Elinor, that 
your maid didn’t know how to do it properly. 
It is so delightful, as I was saying, to find myself 
here again in such a satisfactory household. 
When I was staying last month at the Shaws’, it 
really made me feel dreadfully to find how lax 
Tom had become; a boy who was in my own 
Sunday-school class, too! Emma says that he 
never goes to church with her any more. When 
I spoke to him about it, he had those same old 
foolish excuses to offer that have been trumped 
up since the year one. I’ve no patience with 
them. I said to him: ‘Tom Shaw, by the way 
you go on about hypocrites in the church, any- 
body’d think they went there to be made bad, 
instead of to be taught what’s right, even if 
they don’t follow it.’ But I couldn’t help feeling 
privately that it was mostly Emma’s fault; her 
influence hasn’t been what the influence of a 

[ 13 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


wife should be — not like yours, Elinor. You 
don’t know how thankful I have always been 
that my dear boy has had your high character to 
uphold him.” 

“ I say,” remonstrated Mr. Chandor to his 
wife when they were at last alone, after she had 
sought high and low, unavailingly, for the needed 
rubber band, and Aunt Mary, hovering around 
after her, had promised to buy her a box of them 
in the morning, “I say, Elinor, you’re making a 
regular Ananias and Sapphira out of me! Do 
you think it’s right? Aren’t you afraid retribu- 
tion will overtake me?” 

“ No,” said his wife stoutly; “I’m not. You’ll 
deserve all you’ll get, anyhow! Oh, Preston, I 
was ready to shriek once or twice! But” — her 
tone changed — “did you ever see anything like 
the way children always let out just what you 
don’t want them to, the very first thing? I 
could have slapped Ludle! And it’s worse 
telling them beforehand not to say what you 
don’t want them to — that’s fatal ! They will 
always ask politely: ‘Mamma, why mustn’t I 
say this or that?’ ” 

Her mind reverted to the welcome that might 
be made by members of the congregation to 
her husband next Sunday. -The Crandalls 
she could warn, but her wifely dignity wouldn’t 
let her take others into this demeaning con- 
fidence. 

1 14] 


When Aunt Mary Came 


The culminating day of the week assumed an 
unusual halo that coloured all the hours leading 
up to it — Elinor wanted that Sunday to be 
perfect not only in its highest way, but in all 
those little material ways that show the festal 
spirit in them. She already had the promise of 
her new summer silk from the dressmaker — 
a simple little thing, the gray and white stripe 
that was so cool looking, and that Preston 
always liked. Her hat had been a great dis- 
appointment; it was a very large hat. She 
knew, of course, when she bought it that Pres- 
ton invariably inveighed against large hats, but 
it had seemed so peculiarly becoming when she 
tried it on, both to herself and the milliner, be- 
sides being so exactly “the style,” that she had 
been sure that Preston must consider it becom- 
ing, too. But when she had worn it for the first 
time, and, her eyes beseeching approval, she 
had asked: “How do you like my new hat, 
Preston?” he had dashed all her hopes to the 
ground by the fell words: “I don’t like it at 
all!” 

No normal woman can ever take any satis- 
faction in wearing a hat that her husband dis- 
likes. Elinor had sadly felt obliged to wear hers, 
but for this coming Sunday she took down out 
of the closet a little old toque, that Preston had 
always admired her in, and that fitted down 
compactly over her rippling brown hair, and 

[IS] 


Refractory Husbands 

trimmed it with a bunch of pink rosebuds, to be 
pleasing in his sight as they walked from the 
sanctuary. Nor did her preparations stop here; 
she would have a special plate of com muffins 
for his breakfast that morning, smothered 
chicken, such as he used to have at his own home 
when a boy, for dinner, and the dessert should 
be boiled apple dumplings with hard sauce. 

Elinor never could quite understand why the 
hot boiled apple dumpling should appeal so 
strongly to both the fancy and appetite of her 
husband; if he were asked, at any time of the 
year, what he would like for dessert, he always 
unhesitatingly answered, “ Boiled apple dump- 
lings.” 

From the morning after benevolent Aunt 
Mary’s arrival, the household had benefited 
steadily by her suggestions and assistance. 
The promised rice pudding had been made, 
indeed, after a long delay, during which Aunt 
Mary, in a white apron, sat cheerfully patient 
while Elinor strove maddeningly at the telephone, 
first in ordering the rice and nutmeg — which 
of course no kitchen storeroom should be with- 
out — and then in asking why the articles 
didn’t come, and then in striving excitably to 
point out the fact that, even if they were “on 
the wagon” an hour ago, they were of no cul- 
inary use in that position. But the rice pudding, 

[16J 


When Aunt Mary Came 


when it was finally set before them at night, 
was of the creamiest, most delicious variety, 
and there was actually enough of it for every- 
body, which is so seldom the case with a really 
good rice pudding. 

Aunt Mary hung up the two brooms by strings 
so that they should not be worn out by resting 
on the floor, reminding the maid smilingly of 
this usage, during the day; she made dusters, 
and little bags for them, disposing them con- 
veniently everywhere, so that one could always 
dust on the spot; she screwed up a hook behind 
the side door where Teddy could reach it to 
hang his hat, under her kindly supervision, in 
strict observance of this rite. 

She was continually saying to Elinor as the 
latter hurried about her avocations: 

“Now do sit down for a few minutes, dear, 
you’re tired; you may not know it now, but 
you’ll feel it afterward. ‘ Rest when you can!’ 
that has always been my motto. |A young 
mother never realizes how much vitality she 
may use up unnecessarily.” | 

Aunt Mary had many long, serious, and up- 
lifting conversations with her niece on the sub- 
ject of living, based on the thoughtful experience 
of a courageous woman of sixty-eight who had 
been through a good deal in her day. She was 
so indefatigably kind and resourceful and help- 
ful, her advice was so indisputably good, that 

[ 17] 


Refractory Husbands 


Elinor was horrified to find herself at times wish- 
ing that she might weakly relapse unnoticed 
into doing things hit or miss, in her own natural 
way, even though it mightn’t be the best one at 
all, instead of having everything arranged for 
her. Even Preston showed an occasional fret- 
ting of the bit under prolonged instruction. 

It was in vain to deny that kind Aunt Mary, 
beloved as she certainly was, had a will of her 
own; it was impossible to gainsay her; as every- 
thing was for one’s own good, it would have 
seemed the part of the ingrate to strive to balk 
her, even if the striving had been of any use. 
Yet with that, perhaps, natural weariness of the 
flesh, on her young relative’s part, was mingled 
Elinor’s deep gratitude at Aunt Mary’s uncon- 
scious influence over Preston in the matter of 
the Sunday observance. There was soft radi- 
ance, a melting happiness in Elinor’s eyes at 
moments, unknown to herself, when she re- 
garded her husband, of which he found him- 
self tenderly and comprehendingly conscious. 
His wife wasn’t like most women — there was a 
lot she never talked about. 

Others were thinking of the day as well as 
she. Will Crandall, as she met him Saturday 
afternoon coming from the train, announced 
that he had applied to sing two solos for the 
occasion ! Mr. Owen took off his hat to her with 
a smile of remembrance, and Lucia Bannard 

[18] 


When Aunt Mary Came 


herself came to the house with a pensive, up- 
lifted look in her dark eyes and some sprays 
of lilies of the valley. 

“They are out of our own garden,” she 
announced in her low, thrilling voice. “We 
are all going to wear them to church to-morrow. 
I thought if you and your husband would each 
wear a spray, it would show that we were all 
together.” 

“Why, that’s awfully sweet of you,” said 
Elinor, kissing her friend warmly. 

She pinned the flower in her husband’s button- 
hole the next morning, when, the corn muffins 
enjoyed and the apple dumplings secretly 
accomplished, she was all ready and dressed to 
set out. She had to go early to-day, that was 
the only drawback, on account of substituting 
for Miss Green with that lady’s Sunday-school 
class. It was too bad that she couldn’t walk 
to church with Preston, but she would walk back 
with him, and Aunt Mary would love to have 
him all to herself going there. 

“Lucia Bannard wanted you to wear this,” 
she announced. “We all have them in honour 
of the occasion.” 

“Why, that’s nice of her,” said Preston, very 
much surprised, but rather pleased. She stood 
there in her gray-and-white striped silk and the 
little hat, with a bunch of pink rosebuds, fram- 
ing her rippling hair, her soft blue eyes gazing 

t 19] 


Refractory Husbands 


up at him with that new, happy light in them. 
He drew her to him, and kissed her, his arms 
lingering around her as he whispered: 

“ You’re an awfully nice woman, do you know 
that? Best wife I ever had.” 

The day was beautiful, though warm; the 
walk to church was long, but Elinor was not 
tired. Lucile and Teddy went prattling along 
beside her. 

By some miraculous sixth sense, after reach- 
ing Sunday-school, though she hardly heard 
what the children in the class were reciting, or 
asking her, she seemed to be equal to the re- 
quirements of the situation. Her mind was 
bent on the triumphant moment that was com- 
ing, when she should be in her own pew and, 
looking up, see Aunt Mary’s fine, fresh-coloured 
face, her gray hair and her stately presence, 
coming down the aisle with — Preston; Preston, 
tall, well-dressed and fine-looking; nay, hand- 
some! He mightn’t be handsome to any one 
else, but he was to her. 

She was in the pew at last, Lucile and Teddy 
had gone home. People came in gradually, 
by twos and threes; the organ was playing the 
voluntary — then more people; the church was 
filling up, yet none from her household appeared. 
The choir-boys were entering, singing lustily; 
she stood up, still no one! Had anything hap- 


When Aunt Mary Came 

pened? She saw, with swift-beating heart, the 
house on fire — Aunt Mary in a fit of apoplexy 

— Preston stabbed by a passing tramp ! 

The service began, still no one! But as she 
knelt, some one slipped into the pew beside her, 
and Aunt Mary, flushed and breathing hard, 
yet composed, slid with competent facility into 
prayer. 

Elinor had to wait until they arose, to ask 
agonizingly, “Has anything happened ?” and 
receive Aunt Mary’s decisive shaking of the 
head and the words, framed laboriously, almost 
inaudibly, with her lips: 

“I had a telegram just as I was starting; I will 
have to leave immediately after dinner to see 
my brother to-morrow before he sails.” 

“And Preston?” breathed the wife. 

“I’ll tell you about him later,” nodded Aunt 
Mary quietly, and relapsed prohibitively into 
worship. 

“You see, my dear, it was this way,” she 
announced, when the service was over and they 
were free of the congregation and the amused 
I-told-you-so looks that Elinor could feel passing 
over her. Aunt Mary’s kind face shone ten- 
derly on her young companion as they walked 
along under the green branches of the spreading 
elms. “My dear, you may not have noticed it 

— he kept up until after you left — but I 
couldn’t help seeing then, when I was alone 


Refractory Husbands 


with Preston, that there was something weighing 
on the dear boy. I never saw any one get so 
restless. He couldn’t keep still a moment, 
though I was reading him a most interesting 
article on the Diseases of the Throat — a 
subject of moment to every one; as I always 
say, ‘An ounce of prevention is worth a pound 
of cure.’ He had such a line between his eyes, 
and there was a strange lassitude about him that 
convinced me that he was in pain. 

“Of course, when I asked him if there was 
anything the matter, he denied it at first — 
men always do — but I just said: ‘Preston, 
dearie, if you think you can hoodwink your 
Aunt Mary, who brought you up, and who 
knows you better than any one else, dear, you’re 
much mistaken. I blow you’ve got one of your 
bad headaches, and there’s no use your saying 
you haven’t. I’m the last person to advocate 
any one staying home from church as a usual 
thing, but there’s common sense in all things; 
you don’t go a step out in that sun to-day, if I 
know it. Well, Elinor, it really touched me to 
find how much the dear boy hated to miss even 
one service, and when it came down to it, I could 
see, besides, that he thought his little wife 
wouldn’t approve of his absence ; but this time I 
was firm. I knew you would understand.” 
She paused. 


[22] 


When Aunt Mary Came 

“Yes,” said Elinor, striving for self-control. 

“He didn’t want to go upstairs and lie down, 
but I left him in the shaded corner of the piazza,” 
went on Aunt Mary happily, “stretched out 
comfortably, with a pillow behind his head, in 
the steamer-chair, with the collect, epistle and 
gospel to read — I found them for him myself 
in the prayer-book — and a glass of water beside 
him. I knew you really wouldn’t mind when I 
told you the facts of the case. I have no doubt 
that we shall find him much better on our return 
now. And, my dear, take the word of a woman 
of sixty-eight; nothing is gained by forcing a 
man to keep up to a certain mark! Preston 
can be safely left to his own guidance.” 

“I really did want to go,” whispered her 
husband, in ludicrous, dismayed protest, as 
Elinor bent over him. “I couldn’t help it; I 
give you my word!” 

“I know,” whispered his wife smilingly in 
return. She pressed her cheek against his. 
“It’s going to be just the same for me as if you 
went. And, after all ” — she stopped a moment 
before she murmured shyly — “dear, I always 
take you in my heart with me anyway, when I 
go to church. I didn’t need to have Aunt Mary 
come for that.” 


[23] 































































7 ' ' 

■ 

' •• 





















































W/ ' - I 






























A Friend of the Married 













A Friend of the Married 

TflT UCIA BANNARD, in a becoming lav- 
ender gown, sat in her pretty yellow 
bedroom, on a Sunday morning, gazing 
at a large and dingy overcoat spread out before 
her on the bed. 

The Bannards’ small home was conceded to be 
one of the most charming in the neighbourhood. 
Everything with which Lucia had to do was 
perfect so far as taste was concerned; even the 
Brentwoods’ big roomy mansion, with its old, 
harmonious furnishings, its stacks of books and 
air of comfort and prosperity, couldn’t compare 
in a sort of exquisite, inspiring beauty with the 
Bannards’. In the nine years of her married 
life it had been one of Lucia’s chief objects to 
gather the things together which, as she ex- 
pressed it, were “ right,” even if the house had 
to wait, scantily furnished, from Christmas to 
Christmas, for a chair, or bookcase, or rug. 

Lucia herself bore out the character of the 
house. She was a beautiful young woman, with 
a slender figure, very large and expressive dark 
eyes, a short upper lip with a proud yet infantile 

[27] 


Refractory Husbands 


curve, and pale golden hair. Her taste in her 
own dress was as perfect as in other things. 
She was a clever manager, and never told any 
one but Elinor Chandor,her next door neighbour, 
how little her clothes cost: she seldom talked of 
any of her economies. Even the maid who 
answered the door, showed an extra nicety of 
cap and apron, as well as in smiling good looks. 

Where everything was so esthetically “ right, ” 
the one discordant note, in the matter of suitable 
appearance, was Mrs. Bannard’s husband: he 
was a delightful young man, but he would not 
buy clothes. As he came in now, tall, happily 
light-footed, with a noticeably distinguished 
bearing and a teasing twinkle in his nice blue 
eyes, she interrupted his cheerful if tuneless 
whistle to say abruptly, as her eyes wandered 
over his big figure: 

“Donald, you will have to order your new 
overcoat at once, if you’re going up to the head 
office with Rex Courtney on the first: it’s only 
two weeks from Wednesday!” 

“Why do I need a new one when I’ve got 
this?” asked her husband with prompt con- 
clusiveness. 

“Why? For the same reason I’ve told you 
twenty times before, Donald Bannard, because 
this one is worn out!” 

“I don’t see anything much the matter with 
it,” said Mr. Bannard unimportantly. 

[28] 


A Friend of the Married 


He took up the garment and examined it with 
a cheerfully appraising eye. 

“All it needs, is to have a few little things done 
to it : a new collar, perhaps — velvet gets worn of 
course — and the buttonholes worked over where 
they’re split, and the lining patched up. I 
don’t see but what that will make it all right 
for this winter; lots of wear in that coat 
yet!” 

“Donald Bannard, if you begin talking like 
that again after all I’ve said to you before, 
you’ll drive me raving crazy ! You’ve worn that 
dreadful, cheap thing — I’ve always detested it! 
— for five years. You’ve had the collar renewed 
three times, and the buttonholes worked over 
so often that the last time even the tailor ob- 
jected to doing it. If you have it done again, it 
will take buttons the size of tea-plates to hold 
them. And it’s all frayed out around the wrists 
and shiny in the seams: it’s horrid; it’s dis- 
gusting! It took away all my pleasure every 
time I went out with you last winter. You 
owned, yourself, in the spring, that you 
could never put it on again. Whenever I’ve 
spoken to you about it since, you’ve promised 
me you’d go to Grandon’s this fall and 
order a really handsome coat, good material 
and all, the kind Rex Courtney wears. And 
now ” 

The tears welled thickly in Mrs. Bannard’s 

[29] 


Refractory Husbands 


lovely eyes, while her husband obliviously 
searched for something in a chiffonier drawer, 
whistling under his breath. 

“And you needn’t try and act as if you didn’t 
care when I speak to you this way: you ought 
to care! I have to work, and work, and work , 
to make you buy the ordinary clothes that other 
men get as a matter of course. If you hadn’t 
the money now, Donald, I wouldn’t say a word, 
but when I’ve taken such pains to save up 
enough so that you could get a really good 
coat — going without a new suit myself, though 
goodness knows I need one ! but, then, a woman 
can fix up things to cover deficiencies, and 
everything does show so on a man! And I’ve 
made over my blue satin myself, just because 
I had set my heart on your looking as you ought. 
Are you listening?” 

“Yes, I’m listening,” said Mr. Bannard, 
smiling at his wife. He had a smile that in- 
variably charmed; it was always with great 
effort that Lucia withstood it, but she did so 
now; she met his eyes stolidly as he continued 
with growing restiveness: 

“What difference does it make what I have 
on, anyway? It’s my own affair if I choose to 
wear what I please. Great Scott, Lucia, I’ll 
be so busy these next two weeks, I’m nearly 
crazy as it is; I haven’t time to go hanging 
around the tailors. All this talk about dress 

[30] 


A Friend of the Married 


makes me sick: people don’t judge me by my 
clothes!” 

“ You’re very much mistaken, that’s just 
what lots of people do judge you by,” returned 
his wife triumphantly. “One thing is certain, 
you cannot go up to the head office with Rex 
Courtney if you haven’t a new overcoat; 
I’d die of mortification if you did! And 
if you think going up there looking like a 
tramp will advance your interests, Donald 
Bannard ” 

“Oh, well, then, don’t say another word,” 
said Mr. Bannard in a slightly raised key. 
“Stop right there! I’ll get the coat.” 

“And you will go to Grandon’s and bring home 
samples of cloth to-morrow?” 

“Yes, I suppose so. Look here, Lucia,” 
Mr. Bannard’s tone changed from one of 
reluctant submission to that of masculine 
authority, “have you been taking my small 
screw-driver out of this drawer again?” 

“No, no, I haven’t taken it! Oh — yes, 
perhaps I did take it for just a moment. Ellen 
wanted one for the wringer, but I put it right 
back again; I’m perfectly positive.” 

“Well, you didn’t,” said her husband with- 
eringly. He faced her with his shoulders thrown 
back and his nice blue eyes flashing lightning. 
“ How many times have I told you , Lucia, not 
to touch that screw-driver? Things have come 

[31] 


Refractory Husbands 


to a pretty pass if I can’t keep one thing of 
my own where I can lay my hand on it ! ” 

“I know I put it back, but I’ll go and look 
for it this minute,” said his wife, hurrying off 
with placating alacrity. She had gained her 
point! 

The next evening he really brought the samples 
home with him, and studied over their possibili- 
ties with her, in as ’deep interest as if he hadn’t 
fought against the proceeding. They spent the 
evening, in the intervals of reading and con- 
versation, in hanging small dabs of cloth on his 
coat-sleeve and considering them from different 
angles. There were all the ones that wouldn’t 
do at all, and the four or five that were so 
attractive that one hardly knew how to make a 
choice. But both at last fixed on an Oxford 
gray that wasn’t an Oxford gray, but some- 
thing darker, richer, indescribably satisfactory 
in colour, and stylish, as Lucia proclaimed, to 
a degree. She saw Donald in prospect in 
a quiet-toned, richly soft, superlatively cut 
topcoat that would even surpass that of Rex 
Courtney. 

Rex Courtney was the one unmarried man in 
the little intimate social circle of which the 
Bannards composed a part. There were other 
young men in the place, of course, but they 
were of the ordinary sort, who were only in- 
terested in their own kind, or in girls, whereas 

[32] 


A Friend of the Married 


Rex was superlatively the friend of the married. 
He was credited with having had an affair 
of the heart — perhaps, indeed, two or three — 
in which he had been, colloquially, so “hard hit” 
as to turn his mind from love toward the less 
demanding comforts and pleasures of friendship. 

He, like Donald Bannard, was “in Steel,” but 
he travelled much of the time in its interests, 
often returning only over the week-end, and so 
warmly pleased to be welcomed in the houses of 
his more fortunate fellowmen that each house- 
hold vied with the other in the possessiveness 
of its welcoming; each wife wished to believe 
that hers was the abode in which he really 
felt most at liberty to smoke when he desired 
to, and ask for cake when he wanted it. 

He was a favourite with all the men. He 
was indeed an extremely nice fellow, cheery, 
entertaining, and indefatigably considerate of 
womankind, performing all the little courteous 
attentions which their husbands meant to per- 
form, but didn’t; he brought boxes of candy 
and flowers, and never forgot the children, 
who were devoted to him. His perfection in 
these respects, instead of casting a slur on the 
husbands seemed on the contrary to raise the 
standard of all the male sex ; the men concerned 
had the effect of generously allowing services 
that belonged to them by right. If at times 
he strove to help over those places where Ijoth 

[33] 


Refractory Husbands 

husband and wife from their inner circle knew 
that no help was needed, they only smiled at 
each other comprehendingly. Lucia liked to 
feel that Donald was really the nicest after all. 

Rex gave the impression of thinking sym- 
pathetically: “If I could get as charming a 
wife and as delightful a home as this, you bet 
it wouldn’t be long before I’d have them; but 
I know very well it can’t be duplicated. It’s 
awfully good of you to let me have a little 
corner here.” 

For the rest, he was in the early thirties, not 
very tall, but broad-shouldered, fair, clean- 
shaven, and with very white teeth; as Lucia 
Bannard had hinted, he was always notably 
well dressed. 

The women, though giving him his title in 
converse, always spoke of him as Rex Courtney; 
there was something in the name itself that 
showed you what he was like. The men called 
him, familiarly, Court. 

He had been at one time most intimate at 
the Crandalls, and then at the Chandors; but 
lately his visits had grown more frequent to 
the Bannards, with whom, though the latest 
known, he found many interests in common. 
He and Donald were both ambitious so far as 
Steel was concerned, and his appreciation of 
Lucia’s love of beauty was of an intelligent 
kind which she didn’t usually receive. He had, 

[34] 


A Friend of the Married 


besides, a real masculine force that made his 
sympathetic insight of her aims and motives 
very delightful to receive. When he occasionally 
joked j with Donald on some solecism in the 
latter’s attire, she felt deeply — though she 
never spoke on the subject to Rex Courtney — 
that he saw and appreciated her troubles in 
that line. 

It was this man with whom Donald was to 
travel in company to report at the head office on 
the first of the month. 

“Did you take the samples back to Grandon’s 
to-day?” Lucia asked her husband anxiously 
the next night after he had come home from 
town. 

“Yes,” said Donald lightly. 

“I hope to goodness you showed him the 
right sample!” 

“I certainly did. Grandon says it will make 
a fine coat.” 

“And when will it be finished, dear?” 

“Oh, some time within the next two weeks; 
before the first, you may depend on that; Grandon 
never disappoints. And, look here, Lucia” — 
he spoke gently but firmly, kissing her up- 
turned face half absently as if it were some 
necessary refreshment — “I don’t want to be 
questioned about that overcoat every night 
when I come home! When it’s done I’ll get 
it, and that is all there is to it. And, by the 


Refractory Husbands 


way, you might as well telephone to Bergwitz 
to-morrow, and have him send over for the 
old coat and put it in some kind of shape. It 
may turn cold suddenly.” 

“Well,” said Lucia grudgingly, “I’d like to 
pitch the thing out of the window this very 
minute, but I don’t want you to get pneumonia, 
of course.” 

It did turn cold by the end of the following 
week, that bitter cold that comes sometimes 
in late November. Only the thought of the 
beautiful garment her husband was to have, sup- 
ported Lucia in the ordeal of seeing him in the 
old one. The tailor’s art had somehow failed 
him in the renovation; perhaps he had tried 
it so often that he had lost heart; those awful 
buttonholes sprawling over one side, the thread- 
bare edge, its indescribable air of rustiness and 
collapse, were accentuated by the new velvet 
of the collar. It took enormous self-control on 
Lucia’s part not to burst out at him violently 
when he put it on. A pregnant, withheld 
silence, in which she was apparently oblivious 
of her husband, always made him demonstra- 
tively affectionate, while she, on the other 
hand, became warmest when he was cool. 
Sometimes things went his way, and sometimes 
they went her way; and no human power could 
ever predict whose day it was going to be. They 

[36] 


A Friend of the Married 


were a young couple who, on the whole, found 
great interest in life. 

It was on the Monday evening before the 
trip, and while Lucia was hourly expecting the 
arrival of the new garment, that Donald came 
home earlier than usual, particularly brisk and 
affectionate. 

“ What do you say to going to town for a little 
treat to-night? ” he asked. “ Somebody gave 
Court three tickets for the opera, and he wants 
us to meet him in town after an early dinner. 
Can you make it? ” 

“Can I make it!” cried Lucia rapturously. 
She flew at her husband and embraced him, 
while he fished in his pockets for a time-card. 
“I can get dressed in five minutes. You’ll 
have to change, yourself; you’ll wear your 
evening clothes, of course.” 

“Oh, it never takes me long to get into them,” 
said her husband easily. To do Donald justice 
he never minded wearing clothes when he had 
them: it was the bother of getting them at which 
he balked. 

She surveyed her husband with pride and 
pleasure when he was arrayed in his handsome, 
well-fitting evening togs. Heaven only knows 
what she had gone through before they were 
accomplished, long after his original suit had 
grown too small for him! The last time he 
had worn the latter was at a wedding. She had 

[37] 


Refractory Husbands 


begged and prayed him for three weeks before- 
hand, ever since the cards were out, on their 
return from the summer vacation, to get those 
clothes down and try them on, and he wouldn’t, 
with the result that the very night of the fes- 
tivity he had had to have the waistcoat split up 
the back, because it wouldn’t button in front, 
and her sister Bess had inserted a wedge-shaped 
piece: Lucia was so angry that she wouldn’t 
touch a needle to it ! When he put on the coat, 
it skewered him to that degree that he looked 
ridiculously like a trussed chicken. He couldn’t 
move all the evening for fear of its splitting. 
That had settled it: he had ordered a suit the 
next day, but his surrender taught him no 
lesson. 

The one drawback to the evening now was 
that that fiendish overcoat had to be put on 
above his splendour. She fancied that Rex 
Courtney’s eyes took note of it curiously. 
She felt his underlying sympathy with her when 
he complimented her later on the becomingness 
of her pale blue satin — under her lovely 
white cloak — with its tunic and tight skirt, 
after the fashion of the day, and the blue, 
silvered bandeau in her golden hair. 

“You have the art of making whatever you 
wear look as if it were the one perfect thing,” 
he announced; and she did not think it neces- 

[38] 


A Friend of the Married 


sary to inform him that the gown was one of 
her exquisite economies, made over laboriously 
by her own fingers, so that her money for a 
new one might swell the fund for her darling 
Donald’s overcoat. He was careless as to his ex- 
penditures; his money was apt to melt as soon 
as he touched it; she had to be the wise provider ! 

Yet there was something in Rex Courtney’s 
praise now that she found vaguely haunting 
her. It wasn’t in what he said, but in something 
he hadn’t said, something, she was sure, that 
he had wanted to speak of ; she felt it all through 
the opera. 

“ Thank you for a most delightful evening; 
it’s been a joy!” she breathed fervently when 
they were parting at last on the home doorstep, 
and he had answered simply: 

“I’m so glad you liked it; it’s been a great 
pleasure to me,” and added, turning to Donald: 

“We’ll have to do this oftener, together, the 
three of us. I don’t know of any one who has 
a greater appreciation of beauty and a good 
time than your wife, Bannard!” Both men 
looked at her affectionately. 

“You’re about right there, Court!” said 
Bannard with his hand on Lucia’s arm. 

To have Rex Courtney speak in that way 
about her! Nell Crandall and her husband 
used to get all Rex Courtney’s extra tickets, 
but now ! 

[ 39] 


Refractory Husbands 


She wondered again the next morning, how- 
ever, what it was that he didn’t say. 

But she said to her husband suddenly before 
he left: 

“ Donald, do you realize that that overcoat 
hasn’t come home yet, and you start to-morrow 
night?” 

“ Yes, Lucia, I realize it,” he answered tersely. 

“Be sure and see about it to-day. Don’t 
chance their sending it. Wear it home, and 
let them send the one you have on. I’d have a 
fit if anything went wrong about it.” 

“Look here, Lucia, who’s getting this over- 
coat, you or I?” he asked imperturbably. 

“ Goodness knows that, if I had been getting 
it, you’d have had one long before this,” replied 
Lucia with a desperate gesture and a theatrical 
moan. 

It did not arrive during the day, nor did he 
wear it home. Lucia, on tenterhooks, after 
the first moment’s questioning, subsided; she 
saw that look on her husband’s face which warned 
off speech. She could get nothing out of him, 
except that it would be all right the next day; 
otherwise, as she confessed to herself, he was as 
dear as only he could be. He had brought 
her a box of marrons as a solace after he left, 
and was so delightful a lover that she couldn’t 
bear to mar the hour in any way. 

[40] 


A Friend of the Married 


All Wednesday she looked forward to the 
moment when he would arrive, resplendent, for 
those last couple of hours before going in town 
again to start off for the night. 

At his footfall she rushed downstairs and 
turned up the hall light, that his effulgence 
might burst upon her. Instead, he stood 
there as usual, taking the newspapers out of 
the worn pockets of his old coat. 

“Donald Bannard!” she began wildly, before 
he stopped her with a gesture : 

“There’s no use your saying anything. I 
never ordered the coat; that’s all!” 

“ You never ordered it! You told me yourself 
that you went to Grandon’s; you ” 

“I did go to Grandon’s, and showed him the 
sample we picked out, but I was in such a tearing 
rush that I couldn’t even wait to be measured 
then; I said I’d be over the next morning. I’ve 
honestly expected every single day to go in, 
but I’ve been so all-fired busy that I just 
haven’t had a minute. Great Scott, Lucia, 
when a man has as much to see to as I’ve had 
lately, you can’t expect him to bother about 
such a little thing as clothes! I’ve been nearly 
wild. You will just have to let me go on as I 
am till things straighten out a bit and I have 
more time.” 

“Oh, that’s the way you always talk,” said 
his wife bitterly. Her large eyes dwelt on him 

[41 1 


Refractory Husbands 

with a tragic despair. She had nothing to say: 
it was too dreadful. She had done her best; if he 
made a bad impression at the office, she couldn’t 
help it. What was the use of struggling any 
more? Perhaps he had been too busy. She 
had a strange, forlorn, feminine pride in his 
being beyond her control, even in her despair. 
She did not see how she could ever say any 
more to him about that overcoat than she had 
said. 

She had thought this the height of the situa- 
tion, but there was a peak beyond, unseen as 
yet. In the three days before his return she 
found herself growing tired, incapable in thought 
of managing things. She wasn’t used to being 
without Donald, and she seemed to be inimit- 
ably homesick for him. She wanted to feel his 
dear hand; she could forgive him temporarily 
for his tacit deception of her if he would only 
come back. 

But the step on the piazza, when it did come, 
was not Donald’s, but Rex Courtney’s. 

“ Where’s Donald?” she asked anxiously as 
she greeted him. 

“Oh, he’s all right. He had business that 
detained him. I came on this morning,” said 
Rex. “He asked me to leave these papers here 
for him and to tell you he’d be out on the last 
train. I’ll only sit down for a moment.” 

[42] 


A Friend of the Married 


“Did you have a nice trip?” she asked per- 
functorily. 

“Yes, it was all right,” said Mr. Courtney 
with a reminiscent smile. “Donald’s a fine 
travelling companion. The company gave us 
a bang-up supper the other night, too. I got 
my promotion. I hope Donald will get his 

soon; but ” Rex paused, and slapped his 

knee meditatively with the gloves he held in 
his right hand. 

“There’s something that’s been on my mind 
for some time, Mrs. Bannard. I wonder if 
you’ll let me speak to you about it now? ” He 
faced her earnestly. “It concerns Donald.” 

“Why, certainly,” said Lucia, confusedly agi- 
tated. What did he mean? What could he 
mean? 

“Well, it’s just this, Mrs. Bannard: Ronald 
ought to be more particular about his dress. 
A woman is apt to think that only her own 
clothes matter; she spends on them all the 
money her husband can spare, as a usual 
thing. It’s her right, of course, to make herself 
look charming — no one knows how better 
than you, Mrs. Bannard — but it’s a mistake 
to think that a man’s clothes don’t matter just 
as much; it is indeed! A woman doesn’t see 
the business side of it: it makes a great differ- 
ence in many ways if a man looks well dressed, 

[43 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


prosperous; respectable , in short! Other peo- 
ple place much more confidence in him. Now 

that overcoat your husband wears ” Rex 

lowered his voice tenderly as his eyes dwelt 

on the downcast face of his pretty hostess 

“ Really, Mrs. Bannard, you should never 
have let him off in a thing like that; it gives every 
one a wrong impression, and he’s such an all 
around fine fellow, I hate to see it. You feel all 
right, don’t you, Mrs. Bannard? You haven’t 
been ill? Of course I know that no matter what 
he has on he looks all right to you; that’s the 
woman of it!” He smiled encouragingly as 
he rose. 

“I’m sure it is only a little thought on your 
part that is needed. You will forgive me, Mrs. 
Bannard, won’t you, for taking so much upon 
me?” He looked at her anxiously. “ Really 
you don't seem well.” 

“Oh, I’m perfectly well,” said Lucia, con- 
trolling her voice by a superhuman effort. It 
was as much as she could do not to let herself 
burst forth in towering hysterical wrath at 
this unspeakable blunderer. 

Instead, she achieved, for the moment, a 
languid, chill carelessness of voice and manner 
as she went on: 

“I think, however, with all your kind inten- 
tions, you are just a little mistaken; outsiders 
often are, don’t you think? A man like my 

[44]. 


A Friend of the Married 


husband has no fear of being judged by his 
clothes; he dresses entirely to please himself, 
and I should never think of interfering. But 
I’m sure you meant well. Good night !” 

That night a tall young man in an old over- 
coat plunged from the last train into the snow 
that was beginning to fall, and walked with 
cheerful, anticipative steps toward his home, 
happily unconscious of the tempest that he 
was to be called upon to soothe when he got 
there. But it has been noticed since that 
there has been no better dressed man in the 
place than Donald Bannard, beginning with 
that very handsome overcoat which even 
threw in the shade that of Rex Courtney’s, 
who, by the way, doesn’t seem to visit the 
Bannards as much as formerly, Lucia owning 
to Elinor Chandor that they found him rather 
stupid at times. Perhaps a friend of the 
married is most successful in that capacity 
when he is content simply to admire, and does 
not dash in where wiser men might fear to say 
a word. 


[ 45 ] 





















Father’s Little Joke 
























Father’s Little Joke 


yfVfV OTHER, don’t you think we might in- 
vite the Iversons here next week?” 

* It was Winifred Brentwood who 

spoke; she was the dark-haired one, while her 
sister Audrey was fair. Both were unusually 
tall and beautiful girls. When people asked 
pretty, plump Mrs. Brentwood if it didn’t make 
her feel old to have such grown up young 
daughters, she only smiled a superior disclaimer 
— the people who could ask you such a question 
wouldn’t understand if you told them how 
delightful it was to be a girl again in the 
intimate company of two others, who treated 
her at times with a disrespectful comradeship 
that she adored! She looked fondly now at 
Winifred as the latter continued: 

“If Audrey and I hadn’t met Leslie Iverson 
last month in Denver I shouldn’t feel the same 
way about it. Of course we only saw him twice, 
but he was so very nice, and he seemed so 
anxious to have us know his mother. I told 
him, momsey, that you and she had exchanged 
calls last winter, but that I knew you were going 

[49] 


Refractory Husbands 


to invite her to the house as soon as Audrey and 
I got back. I want to have everything as 

attractive as possible ” she paused, and 

added impulsively: “He is so nice; I’d like 
her to think we are nice, too! Not that I 
expect to see anything of him when he comes 
east at the end of the month — he is here so 
seldom and stays such a short while, that they 
want him at home all the time. His mother 
always has a house-party for him over the week- 
end.” 

“Yes, and I know that he hopes she’ll ask 
us,” chimed in the younger sister eagerly. “He 
says they have a grand time.” 

Winifred’s cheeks glowed consciously. “Au- 
drey, how you talk ! It’s not at all likely that 
she will even think of it!” 

Mrs. Brentwood gave a penetrative glance at 
her daughter, but she only said matter-of-factly: 

“Of course we ought to have had the Iversons 
here long ago. It is nearly a year since they 
moved into the place, but there always seems 
to be so much going on * ” 

She stopped with a reminiscent sigh. The 
Brentwoods, in their comfortable, roomy, pros- 
perous house, practised such continuous hap- 
hazard hospitality that it was hard to know 
where to sandwich in formal entertaining such 
as this of the Iversons would have to be. The 
Iversons were not only very much richer than 
[ So] 


Father’s Little Joke 


any one else in the little community — Mr. 
Iverson being many times a millionaire — 
but they were rigidly correct and elegant both 
in appointment and demeanour; as one might 
say, “icily regular, splendidly null.” The 
time Mrs. Brentwood had called, the tea things 
and biscuits had been brought in by two butlers; 
one couldn’t imagine anything haphazard in 
connection with the Iversons. 

“Shall we ask them to dinner?” she went on. 

“No, no, not dinner! Luncheon,” answered 
Winifred. “Mother, stop pulling at your waist! 
That isn’t the way to make it stay down. Lean 
over to me a moment. You do get your hair 
so tight at the sides! There, that’s better.” 
She gave the offending parent an affectionate 
pat. “I think it had better be luncheon.” 

“Then we can’t have Mr. Iverson.” 

“No, we’ll just ask Mrs. Iverson and her 
sister. We won’t try to have any men; Mr. 
Iverson is so delicate that he probably wouldn’t 
come.” 

“Father doesn’t care for that sort of thing 
anyway,” said Audrey. 

There was a moment’s silence. “No, your 
father doesn’t care for that kind of thing,” 
corroborated Mrs. Brentwood. They had all 
known from the beginning that they would 
decide on the luncheon, and why. 

Mr. Brentwood was a tall, strongly built 

[si] 


Refractory Husbands 

man of fifty, with an almost military bearing, 
a handsome gray head, fine features, a gray 
moustache, and an infectious smile. His family 
adored father, who, in addition to his noble- 
mindedness, unselfishness, and sweet temper, 
was generous to a degree, and always thinking 
of the welfare and happiness of his family. 
He was one of those fathers of whom there are 
not too many, whose duty to them did not 
end with providing money — his children were 
as much a matter of his intimate care and com- 
panionship, if in different ways, as they were 
their mother’s; his responsibility for them was 
always back of hers, to be trustfully relied on 
and appealed to. Mrs. Brentwood looked 
with wonder not unmixed with disdain at the 
women who actually boasted of having the 
sole management of their boys and girls. Mr. 
Brentwood was well born, well educated, and 
successful in affairs. He had, in the eyes of 
his family, but one fault: he had a masculine 
sense of humour of a homely, almost rural 
type, at which they winced uncontrollably. 
Mrs. Brentwood, even from the earliest days 
of their marriage, had been wont to implore 
her Theodore, when they were expecting com- 
pany, not to be “ funny.” 

Certain jokes or mannerisms of his at the 
table were of daily occurence. Hardly noticed 
any more when they were alone, they sprung 

[52] 


Father’s Little Joke 


unto startling prominence when there were 
guests. He always said: “ People come from 
miles around to hear us drink soup. ” He jovially 
inquired if he might “borrow the butter,” or 
if Ellen, the waitress, could “spare him another 
slice of bread.” He made puns on the vege- 
tables, and he had a habit of looking with sudden 
suspicion at any dish handed to him, no matter 
how familiar, and asking disgustedly, “What 
is this anyway?” Strangers always inspired 
him particularly to their entertainment. Cer- 
tain ancient, inherited anecdotes could be 
endured by his wife and children, even if with 
aching strain, but there was a bath-tub story 
(Mr. Brentwood had in his early boyhood 
migrated with his parents to what was then the 
edge of the prairie) beginning mendaciously: 
“You know we never took baths when I was 
a boy,” that, though it was amusing, nearly 
went beyond the pale of refinement, and an 
awful tooth-brush story which positively did. 
If people laughed at his stories, Mr. Brentwood 
became practically untrammelled. 

It was better indeed to ask the Iversons to 
luncheon! No matter how deeply he was 
warned against it, father would have his little 
joke. 

There was a distinct glow of satisfaction 
when Mrs. Iverson and her sister. Miss Loomis, 

[S3] 


Refractory Husbands 


promptly accepted the invitation; it amounted 
almost to a feeling of proprietorship in them 
when they were seen passing in one of their 
many automobiles. And there was a further 
glow of satisfaction when the morning of the 
festivity heralded a perfectly beautiful autumn 
day. 

“Did father go to town?” asked Winifred 
suddenly, as she bent over the gorgeous mass 
of flowers she was arranging for the table. 

“No,” said the mother, “he drove up to the 
golf club for the tournament.” 

“To the golf club! Then won’t he ” 

Audrey stopped short. 

“When your father goes to the links, he 
never comes home till six o’clock,” said the 
mother tranquilly. 

“Unless his leg troubles him,” suggested 
Audrey blankly. 

Mr. Brentwood had had a slight accident 
the year before that occasionally disabled him. 
He always referred to the cause as “that infernal 
ligament.” 

“Oh, it hasn’t troubled him this fall,” said 
Mrs. Brentwood, gazing secretly at Winifred 
bending over the flowers. She had a little 
uneasy divination that Winifred, who was usually 
unimpressionable, had been more “taken” with 
Leslie Iverson than the girl herself realized. 
Once in a while Audrey’s glance, meeting her 

[54] 


Father’s Little Joke 


mother’s, seemed to confide the same thought. 
Even if she had only met him twice — Winifred 
had changed in some way. Mrs. Brentwood, 
as she looked carefully over her lace-edged 
plate-doilies to see that there was no imper- 
fection in them, sighed unconsciously, as she 
thought of that new look in Winifred’s eyes, 
with the aching, mature knowledge of the fre- 
quent, crude denial of the opportunities of 
life in spite of the young rosy vision that creates 
them. 

The Iversons, with their retinue of servants, 
might readily be supposed to have none of the 
delightfully intimate pleasure of preparation 
for a festivity that was the habit of the Brent- 
woods. It was a part of the enjoyment of 
the thing, though the preparations indeed 
had their distracting side when it was found 
that the best lace centrepiece had been put 
away by a careless maid, with a spot of chocolate 
on it; also, when Mrs. Brentwood temporarily 
mislaid the key to the trunk containing the 
fancy silver, and two of the tall goblets had 
mysteriously become cracked since the last 
using. There was quite an argument as to 
whether the round table should be made large 
for six or kept without the extra leaf, but Wini- 
fred insisted that it was cosier small. Every- 
thing seemed perfect when it was finished; 
no table, with the efforts of ten butlers, could 

[S5l 


Refractory Husbands 


have looked more exquisite. There was a 
serene security as to the food; it was always, 
as some one had proclaimed, “the best ever.” 
The family, dressed competently on time, in 
the drawing-room, were each a credit to the 
other; Mrs. Brentwood in a becoming mauve 
robe, Audrey in blue, and Winifred in the white 
gown and scarlet ribbons that suited her dark 
hair and glowing cheeks and lips so well. When 
the bell rang, they congratulated themselves 
on being ready; but it was, after all, only 
pretty young Mrs. Bannard, as first arrival, 
full of neighbourly behind-the-scenes interest. 

“How lovely it all looks,” she breathed as 
she seated herself by Winifred. “I took a peep 
in the dining-room as I came in.” 

“You’ve met Mrs. Iverson and her sister 
before, haven’t you, Lucia?” asked Mrs. 
Brentwood. 

“Yes; I’ve met them several times,” answered 
Mrs. Bannard with what seemed some delicate 
reservation. “They’re very nice, oh, very nice 
indeed! as every one says; but we find them a 
little difficult to know. I think they are used 
to a very formal way of living, and of course 

here in this place ” Mrs. Bannard spread 

out her hands lightly. “Is Mr. Brentwood 
at the golf tournament? My husband is com- 
ing out for it.” 

“Yes, father went up there this morn- 


Father’s Little Joke 


ing,” said Winifred, rising with a flush. 
“ Mother ” 

The state guests were entering the room. 

Mrs. Iverson was a slender, fragile woman 
with a long throat, a small, narrow face and 
very light hair and eyes; her colourlessness was 
accentuated by a pale gray gown. She had an 
air at once of extreme unobtrusiveness and 
great elegance. Her expression seemed habitu- 
ally anxious; when she spoke, a couple of vertical 
lines in the middle of her forehead became 
contracted. Her sister, Miss Loomis, who 
lived with her, was heavy-chinned and dark- 
eyebrowed, her stout figure straightly busked 
and stayed into the mould that fashion required; 
she had a little the air of being more the rose 
than the rose itself. The apparently modest 
gowns of both women were, to the practised eye, 
of Parisian manufacture. A chilled atmosphere 
seemed to enter with them. 

“I hope we're not late,” said Mrs. Iverson, 
after the first greetings, glancing swiftly about 
her, while the nervous vertical lines appeared 
in her forehead. 

“No, indeed!” responded Mrs. Brentwood 
warmly. 

“My husband dislikes so much to have us 
late anywhere. He is home to-day with a 
headache; he has been quite an invalid lately.” 

[ 57 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


“Yes, he has been quite an invalid,” cor- 
roborated Miss Loomis, with the air of con- 
fiding a matter of importance. 

“I am so sorry/’ said Mrs. Brentwood. 

“I often find it very difficult to leave him,” 
continued Mrs. Iverson. 

“Yes, indeed, my sister finds it difficult to 
leave him,” said Miss Loomis; “he depends 
so much on her. I often offer to relieve her 
by reading aloud to him, but she says he prefers 
her voice.” 

“Yes, he prefers my voice,” said Mrs. Iverson, 
with eyes that seemed to grow luminous at the 
thought. Mr. Iverson was evidently a power 
to be reckoned on. 

She turned the conversation away from the 
subject, however, as she smiled over at Winifred 
and Audrey though it was evident that it 
still occupied her thoughts. “I have never 
met your daughters before, Mrs. Brentwood.” 

“No; we went to Europe last spring, soon 
after you came here,” said Mrs. Brentwood. 
She flushed as she always did at the recollection 
of that miraculous trip, as she went on im- 
pulsively: “We had the time of our lives! 
We were gone two whole months, not counting 
the voyage. We had none of us, not even Mr. 
Brentwood, ever been over before. Absolutely, 
we went around thrilling! But luncheon is 
ready. Will you come into the next room, 


Father’s Little Joke 


across the hall?” She led the way, still talking 
as the party took their places, with the iced 
fruit in the tall amber glasses already in place. 

“You have been over, I suppose, Mrs. 
Iverson?” 

“Yes; my sister and I were educated abroad, 
and I have been across with Mr. Iverson every 
summer for the past fifteen years, except this 
year,” said Mrs. Iverson gently. Her brows 
knitted again. “But there is such a sameness 
about it. I don’t think it is much of a rest 
to him; my husband dislikes strangers. Of 
course you had your daughters with you. 
It must have been very pleasant,” she went 
on, with a smile at the younger part of the com- 
munity. 

“Yes, it must have been very pleasant,” coin- 
cided Miss Loomis, with her bright air of 
saying something original. 

“Oh, mother never could have got along 
without us,” said Winifred, with a glance over 
at the tall fruit-glasses before the two guests. 
Lucia Bannard and the family were emptying 
theirs with evident enjoyment, but the others 
seemed to be only dallying lightly with theirs. 

“I used to wish that I had daughters, but 
it is perhaps just as well that I have my boys 
instead,” pursued Mrs. Iverson, “Girls take 
up so much of one’s attention; they have to be 

[59] 


Refractory Husbands 


looked after, of course, and with Mr. Iverson 
in his present state of health it would have made 
things very difficult.” The strained expression 
deepened. “With boys it is very different: 
they have their own lives.” 

“Your youngest is at Groton?” hazarded 
Mrs. Bannard. 

“Yes, at Groton. My eldest son, Leslie, 
is an electrical engineer out West. When he 
comes home, I try to make things as gay for 
him as possible. Mr. Iverson thinks a home 
should be made attractive for a young man, 
but it is sometimes difficult. Of course Mr. 
Iverson mostly keeps in his own apartments 
at such times, and I always have a trained nurse 
on hand in case he should need some little 
attention that I cannot give him at the moment; 
but he seems to think no one can take my place.” 

“No one can take her place!” volunteered 
Miss Loomis effectively. 

“Audrey and I met your son a couple of 
weeks ago, when we were in Denver,” said 
Winifred, a little pink colour coming into her 
cheeks. 

“Indeed!” said the mother. She regarded 
Winifred evidently without seeing her. A 
little haze grew over her eyes. “I should 
like to travel in the West so much, but Mr. 
Iverson does not care for travelling.” 

The conversation turned on California, which 

[ 60 ] 


Father’s Little Joke 


Lucia Bannard had lately visited, and wandered 
still further afield; but the talking got 
laboured when it left Mr. Iverson. There 
seemed no other point of real contact with the 
star guests. The sense of chill began to grow 
deeper. They dallied with their oysters as 
they had with their fruit, eating little, and that 
with a sort of impersonal detachment about 
them. They had come out to perform a social 
duty, and they were performing it; but in 
spite of politeness it was evidently a nervous 
strain. They were oddly like recluses free 
from some hermitage for a few hours, politely 
striving to enjoy an unnatural liberty, with the 
atmosphere of the secluded life still around 
them. Winifred, in her young, clear-eyed im- 
pressionableness, got an unshaped yet not the 
less vivid sensation of some large, tormented 
personality behind the two women who absorbed 
all their individuality and yet wreaked itself 
unhappily on them, because all they gave was 
insufficient for the need. 

Mrs. Brentwood was waiting in hopes of 
success in the next course, the chicken bouillon 
with whipped cream, somewhat long in making 
its appearance, when, after a sound of wheels 
outside, the noise of manly footsteps was heard 
suddenly in the hall, and Mr. Brentwood’s large, 
handsome, grizzled head was thrust between the 
dining-room portieres. 

[ 61 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


“I thought I’d come home to luncheon. 

That infernal ligament of mine Hello! 

I didn’t know you were having company,” 
he announced genially. 

“I told you myself last night, Theodore,” 
said Mrs. Brentwood, flushing with an exaspera- 
tion such as one feels with a beloved child. 
She loved her husband whenever her eyes 
rested on him, yet she could have shaken him 
for coming in just now and disarranging every- 
thing. 

“Come in, dear! Mrs. Iverson, Miss Loomis, 
my husband.” 

“Very glad indeed to welcome you here,” 
said Mr. Brentwood heartily, shaking hands. 
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. 
Iverson, but I hope to soon. Lucia, it’s always 
good to see you!” 

He was a man who always kissed his wife and 
daughters affectionately after even half an 
hour’s absence. He proceeded to do it now, 
holding Winifred’s hand tenderly in his as he 
went on speaking: 

“Now don’t let me upset the party; if there 
isn’t any room for me, you can just send me a 
bite upstairs.” 

“You know you only say that for effect,” 
said Winifred, saucily. She appealed to the 
tableful, her dark eyes, her scarlet cheeks and 
lips framed in the circle of his arm. “He’s 
[62] 


Father’s Little Joke 


the most pampered man! He’d never get 
over it if he thought we’d let him go off by him- 
self and have our good time without him — would 
you, daddy dear?” She pulled his cheek 
down to hers for a moment with defiant pride. 

“It was very, very bad of you to come home 
now, and you’ll crowd us dreadfully, but as 

you’re here ” she was busy, as she spoke, 

helping the maid to lay another place. Every- 
body was moving up inconveniently close, 
with a confusion of doilies and glasses and 
knives and forks, and deprecatingly polite 
murmurs from the guests. The seventh chair 
could barely be edged in; Mr. Brentwood’s 
large figure in his gray suit seemed to dominate 
everything as he beamed with courteous kind- 
liness on the surrounding womankind, with 
apparent obliviousness of an uneasy, startled 
air that seemed to pervade Mrs. Iverson and 
her sister. 

“I’d have been here before, Matilda,” he 
apologized to his wife, “but I went out of 
my way to give that little sewing woman of 
yours a lift; I met her trudging down the road.” 
Mr. Brentwood was always giving a “lift” 
of some kind to oppressed femininity. “But 
I’ve come in time for the broth, I see.” He took 
a spoonful of his, and smiled jovially across the 
table. “That disposes of formality at once. 
People” — the eyes of Winifred, Audrey, and 

[63] 


Refractory Husbands 


their mother commingled in one agonized glance 
— “people, Mrs. Iverson, come for miles around 
to hear us drink soup.” 

Mrs. Iverson looked more startled; she seemed 
indeed to shrink a little, but she only said, 
“Indeed!” with an effort at response. 

“Yes, it reminds me of that precept we were 
taught at school, ‘Eat slowly and distinctly !’ 
Ha! I believe I have made a slight mistake: 
it was, as you were going to remind me, Audrey, 
‘ Read slowly and distinctly/ but the principle’s 
the same. Matilda, Miss Loomis would like 
to borrow some bread.” 

“Oh, no, no,” murmured that lady as Ellen 
hastily passed the article. 

“Well, I will then,” said Mr. Brentwood, 
helping himself. “I never can see why my wife 
won’t have the bread left on the table, as usual, 
when we have company. At all the best 
restaurants, both here and abroad, they leave 
the bread on the table where you can help 
yourself. Isn’t that true, Mrs. Iverson?” 

“I believe it is the custom abroad,” said 
Mrs. Iverson, turning a delicate pink in an 
effort to respond. “But when we travel, Mr. 
Iverson prefers to have our meals served in a 
private room; his health demands quiet.” 

“Is that so,” said Mr. Brentwood, with 
genuine interest. “Poor fellow, I’m sorry 
for him. I know what it is when this infernal 

[64] 


Father’s Little Joke 


ligament of mine troubles me. But speaking 
of the food abroad’’ — he leaned forward deep 
in his subject, “I don’t think it’s what it’s 
cracked up to be. We struck the plum season 
in England; nothing but stewed plums or 
plum tart every blessed day for a ‘sweet’ as 
they call it. A sweet indeed! At luncheon 
or dinner at the house where we were stopping, 
or when we were invited out, plums , I give 
you my word, just the same! I became” — 
the twinkle in Mr. Brentwood’s eye heralded 
to the family the approach of a much-used 
pun — “I nearly became plumb crazy.” 

A sickly smile around the board put its hall- 
mark on the joke, and he went on with another: 

“And the eternal string-beans! I used to 
say, in the words of the poet, ‘I have bean here 
before.’ Ha, ha!” He paused for appreciation 
before going on. “But I’d like to go over 
again. Ever heard the story of the man who 
bought a coat that was too short for him? ” 

“A coat that was too short for him?” re- 
peated Mrs. Iverson painstakingly. “I really 
do not know.” 

“Father, you chatter so nobody gets a chance 
to say a word,” protested Winifred. “You’re 
taking an undue advantage of being the only 
man.” 

“Oh, pray tell the story!” murmured Mrs. 
Iverson nervously. “We are so interested.” 

[65 1 


Refractory Husbands 

“We are so interested,” stated Miss Loomis 
officially. 

“You see, my dear, Mrs. Iverson wants to 
hear it. Ellen, if you can spare me another 
glass of water! Well, he bought a coat, and 
the Irishman told him it was too short for 
him. ‘Oh,’ said poor Jim, ‘but it’ll be long 
enough before I get another!’ And the Irish- 
man thought that was so funny that he went 
off — Audrey, my dear child, don’t fidget so, 
you can’t be well — slapping himself and laugh- 
ing, and he says to the next person he met, 
‘Me friend Jim has been saying the funniest 
thing yet. Bedad, when I told him his new 
coat was too short, he up and says: “It’ll 
be a long time before I get another one!’” And 
he couldn’t understand why nobody laughed 
with him. Well, it’ll be a long time, I’m 
afraid, before I’ll get another trip abroad.” 
He stopped short. He glared darkly with 
sudden suspicion — his head reared back at 
a silver dish on a tray which Ellen was pre- 
senting at his left side. “What under the 
sun is this , Matilda?” 

“Browned potatoes, dear,” replied Mrs. 
Brentwood in a tone of dangerous calm. 

“Oh,” said Mr. Brentwood, happily relieved. 
“What are you looking at me that way for, 
Matilda? What have I done now?” He 
[ 66 ] 


Father’s Little Joke 


helped himself largely, and then went on with 
a ruminative confidence to Mrs. Iverson: 
“I like potatoes in any way but cold.” He 
shook his head retrospectively. “I never have 
a-ny use for potato salad; cold potatoes always 
remind me of cold feet.” An icy thrill seemed 
to run visibly around the table to the agonized 
sense of the family before Lucia Bannard began 
to laugh hysterically, and they joined in, Mrs. 
Iverson and Miss Loomis palely smiling. 

“But you’re not eating anything, Mrs. Iver- 
son,” said Mrs. Brentwood a moment later in 
real concern; “nor your sister either!” 

Alas, it was too true! They had seemed to 
eat without appetite before Mr. Brentwood’s 
coming, but since that there had been hardly 
a pretence at it. What was the use of having 
the “best food ever” for guests who didn’t 
appreciate it? Never had such a thing hap- 
pened before. Nothing, nothing, could have 
turned out less as it had been planned for! 
“ Why had they tried it at all? ” Winifred moaned 
to herself. 

After that last awful remark the conversation 
was left to Mr. Brentwood without any effort 
to draw it away. Mingled with a desire to 
shake this parent who was behaving like a 
naughty boy, was a feeling of resentment against 
these impossible Iversons for not being able 
to see how fine he really was; there could be no 

[67] 


Refractory Husbands 

further pretence of intimacy with Leslie Iver- 
son’s stupid, disapproving family. Something 
in those brown eyes of his seemed to speak, 
as it had on that last meeting, straight to young 
Winifred’s soul, and she said now, in her heart: 
“Yes, I saw what you did, and I say good-bye 
to that something that drew us together. 
There will never be any opportunity for it to 
be more than a memory to both of us.” 

The guests seemed to grow more and more 
repressed, yet nervously almost furtive in 
their glances at each other behind the polite 
veil of punctilious attention which they gave 
their host. Their deference encouraged him 
to fresh efforts; he soared in his untrammelled 
invention. 

Later, when he had Mrs. Iverson and Miss 
Loomis ensconced on the piazza, and after hav- 
ing brought them each the' most beautiful late 
rose he could find, and the biggest Bartlett 
pears off his own tree, he arranged their cushions 
for them — although they were in nervous haste 
for their motor to come 1 — and got the steamer rug 
to put around Mrs. Iverson with dexterous care, 
and that kind smile of his that was so heart- 
warming, in spite of her agitated protests, 
because he saw she looked chilly. After that he 
sat on the railing one leg over the other, and 
Winifred heard the fateful words: 

“You know when I was a boy we never took 

[ 68 ] 


Father’s Little Joke 


baths ” He was beginning the Bath-Tub 

Story! She and her mother clasped at each 
other’s hands secretly with an unheard moan. 

If he came to the Tooth-Brush Story He 

was coming to it. 

The girl began to feel a fury at her visitors 
for being there at all. She never wanted to 
see Leslie Iverson again. She went up to her 
father when the visitors rose at last to go, and 
said her good-byes to them with her arm around 
him; and as the motor drove off he stooped and 
kissed his child as she clung to him. Though 
the Iversons had been so long in going, the 
swiftness of their departure at the last precluded 
all but the most hurried and perfunctory adieus; 
there was nothing said of any future meeting. 

Contrary to their wont, the Brentwood 
family did not talk over the luncheon among 
themselves afterward. The best centrepiece 
and the doilies were put away, the fancy silver 
locked up again, things restored to their rightful 
places, but with no reference to the entertain- 
ment or what had happened at it. They had 
tried whole-heartedly to please, and they hadn’t 
pleased; and it came to the place now when they 
didn’t care whether the guests had been pleased 
or not. The Iversons had dropped out of 
their scheme of things. 

Yet, unexpectedly enough, after all, two days 

[69] 


Refractory Husbands 


afterward they were surprised by a call from 
Mrs. Iverson. They were sitting on the piazza, 
Mrs. Brentwood sewing and the girls just 
back from tennis, when the big motor-car 
drove up and Mrs. Iverson stepped out alone. 
There was an air of animation about her, 
both in movement and expression, that was in 
striking contrast to her repressed manner 
before. She came up the steps with her hand 
already stretched out to clasp Mrs. Brentwood’s, 
the anxious lines on her forehead seemed to have 
been smoothed away. There was a slight 
flush on her hitherto pale cheeks; her gentle 
eyes shone; there was a perceptible glow about 
her that seemed to come from some inner 
change. 

“ Please don’t disturb yourselves. I’ll sit 
down here beside you, if you’ll let me,” she 
said taking her seat by Winifred on the willow 
settee. “I can stay only for a moment, but 
I felt that I couldn’t wait any longer before 
seeing you all. My sister is reading to Mr. 
Iverson. As he always says her voice is not 
mine, but he really wished me to come.” 

“Indeed, we appreciate it,” responded Mrs. 
Brentwood, wondering somewhat. 

The other put up a gloved hand of pro- 
test. “Oh, no, no, it is we who appreciate 
your kindness so much! I couldn’t rest until 
I had told you what a delightful time we 

[ 70] 


Father’s Little Joke 


had at your luncheon the other day. It is 
so long since we have been in a real home — 
with a familyl Perhaps you don’t realize 
what it is to see daughters with their father. 
And Mr. Brentwood! he was so brilliant, and so 

extraordinarily entertaining, and so kind ” 

Mrs. Iverson’s eyes filled with tears. “My 
sister and I were spellbound: we couldn’t eat, 
couldn’t say a thing; we felt so stupid, and we 
were simply spellbound! Mr. Brentwood re- 
minded us so wonderfully of our own dear 
father, who died before I was married, especially 
when he told the story about the coat; it 
really quite affected Amelia and myself.” 

Mrs. Iverson paused for an instant. “And 
all his little attentions to us — he was so kind ! 
But the thing that my sister and I felt most of 
all was how much Mr. Iverson would enjoy 
him. We have done nothing since but try and 
repeat Mr. Brentwood’s clever sayings and 
anecdotes to my husband, and he is all impatience 
to meet Mr. Brentwood. He would have driven 
over with me to-day if he had been able, so 
I have come now to beg you to excuse the 
informality and be so very good, if you will, 
to dine with us, all of you, to-morrow evening. 
Mr. Iverson has so few pleasures, and he is 
anxious to meet you and Mr. Brentwood at 
once.” 

“My dear, we’ll be delighted,” said Mrs. 

[71] 


Refractory Husbands 


Brentwood warmly, but somehow it was Win- 
ifred’s hand that the visitor was holding as 
she went on to say: 

“And I want to engage you and your sister 
now — it’s a little far ahead, but I cannot rest 
until I have an opportunity of returning some 
of the pleasure you have given us — I want 
to engage you both for a small house-party 
that I expect to have on the twentieth for my 
son, when he comes on for a few days; for I 
think you said that you had met him, Miss 
Brentwood? ” 

“Yes, I have met him,” said Winifred, 
with shining eyes, and knew not what strange 
telepathy made the hitherto impersonal, re- 
pressed Mrs. Iverson draw Winifred’s face to 
hers and kiss her. 

If father had succeeded in having his little 
joke, this time it was on them! 


[72] 


Marie Twists the Key 



Marie Twists the Key 


^|"RE you going to the Crandalls’ to-night 
to meet! that girl they have visiting 
^ them?” 

Mrs. Chandor, a pretty, fair woman, paused 
once more before going out of Atkinson’s to 
ask the question of Mrs. Paxton. 

Atkinson’s was the leading grocery, a most 
attractive spot with its gleaming glass jars of 
fruit and vegetables and bright tins of foreign 
delicacies piled up everywhere. On clear morn- 
ings you met almost as many people you knew 
passing in and out as if it were the Woman’s 
Club. To-day, however, it was raining hard; 
in lieu of the usual motors and carriages out- 
side there was only the Iversons’ limousine 
with its swarthy foreign chauffeur speeding 
past, and so few people out with dripping 
mackintoshes and umbrellas that the fact gave 
an additional intimacy to any meeting. Mrs. 
Chandor and her friend, Mrs. Paxton, had 
been talking already fifteen minutes by the 
clock on the opposite wall. 

4 ‘Why, I hardly think we’ll be there — that 

[7Sl 


Refractory Husbands 


is, I told Mrs. Crandall when she called me 
up this morning that if Beverly wasn’t too 
tired to-night when he came home we might 
go over for a while. But if it rains ” 

A succession of expressions seemed to flit 
suddenly over Mrs. Paxton’s speaking coun- 
tenance. She was a short woman, with a gen- 
erous waist, a round face and a snub nose; but 
she had a very clear, fair skin, lovely roundish 
eyes of a very light blue, straying curly tendrils 
of light brown hair, and a dimple at one side 
of her rather large mouth. She had that 
matronly if still youthful appearance that gives 
the effect of having always been married; but 
sometimes, as now, when she smiled with puz- 
zled eyes so that the dimple showed by her 
red lips, her face, under the straying brown 
tendrils, looked unexpectedly like that of a baby. 

“The fact is, Mrs. Chandor, I half hope it 
will rain — it gives an excuse. It’s next to 
impossible to drag Beverly out in the evenings 
now after he once gets home; he is kept down- 
town so late and is so tired — and to the Cran- 
dalls’!” 

She stopped again expressively. The Cran- 
dalls’ presented no gayety even to her willing 
mind. Every one liked them, but they were 
people who in their own narrow-doored, high- 
ceilinged, black- walnu ted home didn’t shine — 
neither kind, housekeeping Nell, nor choir- 

[76} 


Marie Twists the Key 


singing Will, nor old Mrs. Crandall, with her 
black gloves and sloping shoulders and in- 
sinuating manner, seemed to know what to 
do with you when they got you there. 

“I know,” assented Mrs. Chandor feelingly. 
“I should think it would be a little dull for 
Miss Davis. She’s just come from some army 
post out West — I forget the name; but before 
that she lived all over Europe. Her mother 
married again and Miss Davis has come back 
to America to make her own way. Her father 
was some connection of Will Crandall’s. They 
say she’s very accomplished.” 

“I’d like to see her,” responded Mrs. Paxton 
vaguely. “Well, I must go!” They had been 
talking in the doorway for the last few minutes, 
and she raised her umbrella now with an air 
of finality. “Good-bye.” 

She wondered with compunction as she went 
home whether it sounded as if she had been 
complaining of Beverly. Things indeed had 
come to that pass that the mere mention of 
any invitation either raised in him an almost 
vituperative storm at the people who had 
asked them, so that his wife was obliged to 
insist that it hadn’t been meant as an insult, 
or else caused him to say resignedly, with tired 
eyes: “All right, all right! I’d give anything 
to stay home quietly this evening — it’s been the 
hardest day in six months; but if you say so, 

[77] 


Refractory Husbands 


Dorry, of course I’ll go.” The times that she 
had to insist on his keeping an engagement made 
her more miserable than him. His fastidi- 
ousness too often made him unduly critical 
of the village entertainments — he was wont 
to thank Heaven when they were over. 

Perhaps it was no wonder that after Mr. 
Paxton’s business day in town — as dim and 
far off to Mrs. Paxton’s understanding as to 
that of most women, as if he had taken his 
daily train to and from Mars — the comfort 
of his home should appeal ineffably to a brain- 
and-body worn-out man. 

Dorothy Paxton had no artistic sense, like 
Lucia Bannard, but she had an abounding 
gentleness and reposefulness like the fruit from 
a Horn of Plenty. Her soft plumpness seemed 
typical of a generous softness of nature; she 
had that sixth sense which consists in knowing 
how to make a man comfortable. 

It was not only that his dinner was always 
appetizing — Mrs. Paxton never indulging in 
those “off” meals in which there is nothing 
anybody wants to eat — the evening lamp 
at its most perfect angle by the sofa, the fire 
at its brightest, the cosiness of the winter 
evening nestlike after the pretty children had 
come in to bid him good night in strainingly 
affectionate little arms — it was not only these 
material charms that appealed, but the mere 

[78] 


Marie Twists the Key 


presence of Mrs. Paxton in a house gave a 
sense of pervasive warmth, an all-embracing 
loving-heartedness in which the spirit basked. 
Her absence left an aching void. Mr. Pax- 
ton’s hungry “Where’s mamma?” conveyed 
its own message to her children’s sympathetic 
ears. 

Yet sometimes — it were vain to deny it! — 
Mrs. Paxton felt secretly that she didn’t 
get quite so much out of this partnership as 
she should. It is hard to quench effectively 
the inherent sense of justice even in the heart 
of the most loving woman. If Beverly were 
satisfied it was perfunctorily taken that she must 
be. If what she did for him failed to awaken 
him to an equal care for her in little things, 
the only way she knew to meet his inadequacy 
was to take thought for him even more gener- 
ously. It was Mrs. Paxton’s simple creed that 
the more you did for any one the more they 
must naturally want to do for you. Why, 
if she received the least little kindness from 
a friend she couldn’t rest until she had done 
something kind too; it wasn’t so much in the 
nature of a payment as an equal privilege. 
She enjoyed getting out in the evening, and 
Beverly knew it; it was a change — a soul- 
lift in the unvarying round of her domes- 
tic days. In her meditations she had plans 
for reforming him that came to naught — 

[79] 


Refractory Husbands 


convincing talks that never materialized. She 
had had even those wild flights of fancy that 
may come unsuspectedly to the most married, 
in which she saw herself, after the way of the 
heroines of fiction, coquettishly charming her 
husband’s renewed and loverlike interest to 
her by being very attractive to some other 
man. Mrs. Paxton was, however, no fool; 
even if there had been any man who wanted 
to captivate or to be captivated, she had 
herself seen that in real life the spectacle of 
a flirting wife didn’t draw a husband’s interest 
to her pleasingly — it only irritated him and 
made him like her less. There seemed to be 
no effectual way. Yet when one can foresee 
only baffling effects from all one’s efforts, 
circumstances may unexpectedly step in and 
give a twist to the key that unlocks the gate 
to a different road. 

As the day wore on toward night and the 
rain came pouring down more and more blackly 
in chill, rushing torrents, she was thankful 
that it was, after all, to the Crandalls’ that her 
regrets would be telephoned when her husband 
reached home, rather than to some more 
attractive place. Nothing could have sent 
Beverly forth again on such a night. 

She was putting the finishing touches to her 
simple blue house-gown when she heard him 
run up the steps, and leaned over the balus- 

[So] 


Marie Twists the Key 


trade to call “I’m up here, dear,” before he 
could ask little Gertrude, who opened the door 
for him, where mamma was. 

“You’re home early to-night,” she said 
happily, lifting up her face to be kissed after 
he had come loping upstairs to her. 

“Yes,” assented her husband. He was a 
somewhat thickset man of medium size, 
with a long, smooth-shaven face, rather small 
eyes, a handsome nose and mouth, shining 
hair and very small ears and hands and feet. 
His wife was very proud of his aristocratic 
appearance. He had an unusual animation 
now in his eyes and voice. 

“I thought I’d get home in time to dress 
before dinner.” He paused in evident wonder 
at his wife’s astonished glance. “Why, didn’t 
you get the invitation? Miss Marie Davis — 
I went in with her and Crandall this morning — 
said that Mrs. Crandall was going to call you 
up the first thing.” 

“Miss Davis! Yes, I got the invitation, 
but I’d no idea that you would go,” responded 
his wife blankly. “I thought, of course, on 
account of the rain and everything you wouldn’t 
want ” 

She stopped; her husband was sitting down 
on the lounge, already drawing off his shoes. 

“Oh! The rain doesn’t amount to much,” 
he announced absently. “We’ll telephone for 

[ 81 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


Docherty’s hack if you want it.” His eyes 
kindled reminiscently. “Have you met Miss 
Davis?” 

“No.” 

“Curious history she must have had. Her 
mother’s been married three times, or maybe 
it’s four — a regular old Henry the Eighth, I 
call it! Crandall says that poor girl has been 
dragged all over the world. Once they were so 
poor she had to sing in the streets of Budapest 
— I think it was — to get money to buy medicine 
for her mother when she had the pneumonia. 
Crandall says her eyes fill with tears when she 
speaks of it. You can see that she longs to 
have a life like other girls, quiet and domestic. 
Her stepfather, the count, is rolling in money, 
but she won’t live with them.” 

“Why not?” 

Mr. Paxton shook his head and pursed his 
lips significantly. “Don’t ask me! If you 
want to know, I think she’s too attractive. 
She gives you to understand — delicately, 
of course — that her looks have always been a 
drawback to her. She hates foreigners.” 

“Well, if you’re going to shave I think you’d 
better not stay here talking any more,” said 
his wife sensibly. She went to the wardrobe 
and took out, after a moment’s hesitation, 
her best, brand-new trained evening gown of 
lacy black, trimmed at the neck with cerise 
[ 32 ] 


Marie Twists the Key 

velvet, which was very becoming to her fair 
skin and made her figure almost slim. 

The thought of wearing it gave a pleasant 
sense of excitement. She would dress after 
dinner. She reached the foot of the stairs just 
as the maid was opening the door for Donald 
Bannard, who, with a dripping umbrella left 
outside, proffered one neatly furled. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Paxton. I’m bring- 
ing back this umbrella we borrowed of you. 
Lucia thought you might need it to get to the 
CrandallsV , 

There was a peculiar light in his always 
merry eyes. “You’re going, aren’t you?” 

“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Paxton, “unless 
Beverly backs out before the time comes.” 

“Oh, Paxton will be there! Have you seen 
the fair Marie?” 

“No.” 

“Well, she’s a winner, believe me!”' Mr. 
Bannard shook his head with a smile of delighted 
remembrance. “That girl had every man 
around her on the station platform this morning. 
You should have seen old Brentwood! I told 
him he was a disgrace, and he had the face to 
say that I was jealous of him. Well, good 
evening; I’ll see you later.” 

“Thank you for the umbrella,” said Mrs. Pax- 
ton sedately. She felt puzzled and dimly aloof. 
The girl somehow didn’t sound attractive. 

[83] 


Refractory Husbands 


She was forced to alter her opinion, however, 
when she reached the Crandalls’. There was a 
different air about the house at once notice- 
able; a buzz of conversation smote the ear on 
entering, an unusual excitement was evident, 
not only among the guests but in the bearing 
of the family. Even old Mrs. Crandall, with 
her neatly banded coal-black hair, her black 
gloves and her genteel manner, showed it. 
The cause was revealed when Nell loudly 
announced: “ Marie, I want you to meet Mr. 
and Mrs. Paxton — my cousin, Miss Davis.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Paxton and I are old friends already,” 
said Miss Davis in a deep voice, slipping lithely 
toward them from a group of men, her head 
thrown back and both hands outstretched. 
It seemed a wonder that she could move at all; 
her white satin skirt was so narrow that it 
almost appeared, in a back view, as if she were 
sitting down when she was really standing up. 
She was the slimmest, whitest creature Mrs. 
Paxton had ever seen, but her eyes were enormous 
and dark, with violet circles below, and black 
eyebrows above; her mouth was very red, and 
her hair, of which she seemed to have pounds, 
was of a metallic golden colour; waved on top, it 
stuck out in an immense banded knob a quarter 
of a yard from the back of her head. If her 
appearance was foreign, her voice and accent 
were not — she had evidently kept her Western 

[84] 


Marie Twists the Key 

burr through all vicissitudes. She went on now 
after her greeting to Mrs. Paxton: 

“Your husband and I went into town to- 
gether this morning. He is such a dear fel- 
low, isn’t he?” 

“Now, now, now!” protested Mr. Paxton 
with a laugh, “Miss Marie, you mustn’t say 
that before me!” 

“And why not?” asked Miss Davis. She 
turned her cheek toward him, with her head 
still thrown back and her eyes looking from 
under her drooped eyelids. “I know my 
friends often say to me: ‘Marie Davis’ — she 
pronounced it Murree — ‘you are too frank.’ 
But I believe in being frank with men — that 
is, of course, if they’re the right kind. Then 
you know just where you are. Don’t you 
think so, Mr. Bannard?” She turned to 
that gentleman and Mrs. Paxton passed on, 
although the latter noticed, after a moment, 
that her husband was not with her. 

There were no men among the women sitting 
or standing around the room, with the exception 
of young Leslie Iverson, whose engagement to 
Winifred Brentwood had just been announced, 
and who had eyes for nobody but her. Will 
Crandall stood on one side of the door keeping 
watch on the group around Miss Davis. Mrs. 
Paxton had been fascinated by the sight of her 
own figure, almost unbelievably slender in 

[85] 


Refractory Husbands 


the modish black and cerise gown, but by the 
side of the Crandalls' visitor she felt dull and 
solid. If it was any satisfaction, all the other 
women, even Lucia Bannard, looked the same. 
They seemed merely as background for the 
dazzling, metallic brilliancy of the fair “Murree.” 

“What do you think of her?” murmured 
young Mrs. Wilmer in a tone that left an open- 
ing for confidences. 

“She seems very attractive,” said Mrs. 
Paxton. 

“Yes, doesn't she?” agreed Mrs. Wilmer. 
“Old Mrs. Crandall was telling us how ac- 
complished she is. She played the banjo 
before the king of — I’ve forgotten the name 
of the country, but he’s a real king just the 
same — and he was so enraptured that he 
gave her that green bracelet she's wearing; 
but old Mrs. Crandall says that she is still 
a simple American girl.” 

“Old Mrs. Crandall was very intimate with 
the grandmother,” chimed in the matronly 
Mrs. Brentwood. “Mr. Brentwood met Miss 
Davis this morning; he's always so sorry for a 
girl who has to make her own way — he feels 
that he has daughters himself, you know.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Paxton!” called Miss Davis' 
deep voice, as she approached with a following 
of black-coated figures. “I want to ask if 
your husband is truthful.” 

[ 86 ] 


Marie Twists the Key 


“ Probably not,” said Mrs. Paxton with a 
gleam in her baby-blue eyes. 

“ There, what did I tell you, you bad man!” 
cried Miss Davis, gazing at him provocatively. 
“But I forgive you for trying to impose on me. 
Captain Spears, out at the fort, used to say: 
‘Murree, anybody can get around you; you’re 
too warm-hearted.’ But I’m glad I am; I 
wouldn’t be as cold as you are for anything. 
Yes, when a man has as small feet and hands 
as you have, Mr. Paxton, you may be sure he 
has a cold heart.” 

“Now, now, now!” expostulated Mr. Paxton, 
laughing, but, as his wife felt wonderingly, 
fatuously pleased instead of repelled. “Cold, 
indeed! Put your little hand by the side of 
mine. There — mine would make four of 
yours; wouldn’t it, Wilmer?” 

“These big strong men!” said Miss Davis 
admiringly to the world at large. “I’m afraid 
of you! Although after the way you saved 
my life this afternoon, Mr. Wilmer ” 

“Saved your life?” interrupted young Mrs. 
Wilmer unwarily. “I hadn’t heard of that!” 

“Oh, shucks! It was nothing,” objected Mr. 
Wilmer hurriedly. 4 ‘ That black-faced chauffeur 
of the Iversons’ lost control of his machine for a 
moment just as Miss Davis was crossing the 
street, that was all that happened.” 

“All! If you hadn’t put your beautiful 

[87] 


Refractory Husbands 


strong arm around me I would have slipped 
under the wheels,” said Miss Davis, shuddering 
coquettishly. Her white face and arms, her 
white satin gown, and her metallic hair caught 
new light as she shuddered. 

“I’ll be there next time to see that you don’t 
slip,” affirmed Mr. Paxton jovially. “Wilmer 
takes an unfair advantage.” 

“Very attractive girl, isn’t she?” said Nell 
Crandall later in the evening, to the row of 
women sitting somewhat stiffly on the walnut 
chairs under the dim oil paintings. There 
was a hint of growing uneasiness in her manner 
at the continued bursts of loud laughter from 
the other end of the room, where Miss Davis 
had effectively kept all the men. Having 
just finished a song with the alluring refrain 
of “Kiss — Kiss — Kiss,” she was now re- 
arranging Mr. Paxton’s necktie for him. “So 
fresh and unspoiled — a perfect child! in 
spite of the career she has had in courts 
and everything. She said to me just this 
morning: ‘Cousin Nell, I act as I feel. I 
cannot help being natural.’ It makes her 

unusual, of course, but ” Nell paused for 

a moment uncertainly — “very attractive, we 
think.” 

“Oh, very,” assented Mrs. Brentwood, while 
young Mrs. Wilmer fanned herself, though 
it was not warm. 


[ 88 ] 


Marie Twists the Key 


“I shouldn’t call her a child,” she asserted 
dryly when Nell had gone. 

But afterward the male members of the party 
came once more into view, ranging themselves 
round the walls as Miss Davis appeared in a 
new role. Standing under the chandelier in 
the middle of the room in her white satin gown, 
she wriggled from side to side, bent forward and 
back, waved her arms, clasped them over her 
bosom, rolling her large eyes the while, to a 
laborious, stumbling accompaniment played by 
Nell. Old Mrs. Crandall, with a worried ex- 
pression, going from guest to guest, explained 
in her most refined tone that it was an Eastern 
dance that dear Marie was giving. “Her 
grandmother,” said old Mrs. Crandall, “was 
a beautiful dancer, though in a different way. 
It is wonderful, here in our little town, to feel 
the customs of the East brought so near to us 
as in this dance of dear Marie’s.” 

“I don’t call it a dance; I call it a squirm,” 
said young Mrs. Wilmer bluntly when old Mrs. 
Crandall had gone. It might be Eastern, but 
it was also at times embarrassing. 

When the dance was finished Miss Davis 
held out her long white arms toward Mr. 
Paxton, and they whirled rapidly together 
among the impeding furniture and guests, 
her head with its metallic hair resting on his 
black-coated shoulder. Mr. Paxton was a good 

[89] 


Refractory Husbands 


dancer, though it was long since his wife had 
sampled his perfections in that line. 

It had come to that pass to Dorothy Pax- 
ton’s wondering observance that however the 
fair Marie might be surrounded by the jesting 
crowd, Beverly, the quiet and fastidious, was 
always the nearest to her, his laugh the loudest, 
his attentions the most hilariously persistent. 
Mrs. Paxton began to feel an odd chill little 
contempt for her husband; couldn’t he see, in 
spite of the glamour thrown round her, how 
common the girl was? Her eyes wandered 
thoughtfully to the corner where Leslie Iverson 
had no eyes for any one but Winifred Brentwood. 
He was only engaged. She had a dim per- 
ception that to the husbands this was a sort of 
unreal, intoxicating Arabian Night’s Enter- 
tainment in the suburban monotony of married 
life. 

But it was after supper, at which the strongest 
refreshment served was grape-juice, and during 
which seven men had shared Miss Davis’ 
cake with her, that the climax came to this par- 
ticular Arabian Night. Every one seemed to 
be standing up, grouped in the narrow door- 
ways, when the fair Marie started to go up- 
stairs for a photograph of herself in Turkish 
costume which every one had been clamouring 
to see. She stopped, however, on the lower 
step to say, with a plaintive droop: 

[90] 


Marie Twists the Key 


“These dreadful stairs! They spoiled me 
so at the fort, I never walked up once while 
I was at Captain Spears’; either he or Lieu- 
tenant Pike insisted on carrying me. But 
of course I don’t expect such attentions out 
of the army.” 

“See here, are we going to lie down on a 
dare like that?” asked Mr. Wilmer, laughing 
immoderately. 

“I should think not,” amended Mr. Brent- 
wood gallantly. “If it were not for my years 
I should certainly offer my services.” 

“Oh, but I’m a great deal heavier than 
you think,” protested Miss Davis with an 
alluring fall of her long lashes. 

“Heavy! Do you hear that, Chandor?” 
asked Donald Bannard, slapping his friend on 
the back. “Just wait a moment, Miss Marie. 
Chandor wall run up and down with you in 
five seconds.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to step ahead of everybody 
else,” said Mr. Chandor. “I’ll give you a 
chance, Donald.” 

“No, I’m referee. How about Paxton? 
He’s crazy for the opportunity.” 

“Yes, how about Paxton?” came in deep- 
voiced chorus. 

“All right, that suits me,” agreed Mr. Paxton 
with the air of a hardy rover. “ Time me ! ” 

There was a general cheer. Mrs. Paxton, 

[91] 


Refractory Husbands 


looking from her place in the outer circle, saw 
Beverly, her husband, snatch up the willing 
captive in both arms, her head hanging back- 
ward, her eyes closed and her teeth shining 
between her red lips, and dash up and down 
again, while Mr. Wilmer held the watch. 

“By Jove! You are heavier than you look,” 
he said with genuine surprise, as he set her on 
her feet again and a derisive shout proclaimed 
that he had failed. Her slipper fell off and 
he jammed it on her tiny foot. “That isn’t 
fair. You ought to let me have another show!” 

The mirth grew uproarious. Beverly was 
laughing incessantly, as was every one else, 
yet with a glittering eye, a hint of eagerness 
under his laughter, that wasn’t perceptible in 
the other men. Old Mrs. Crandall, with a still 
more worried expression than before, was cir- 
culating elegantly round with anecdotes of the 
young woman’s grandmother; Nell was anx- 
iously repeating to unheeding ears how much of 
a child and how natural Marie was; while 
Will Crandall, with glowering eyes, seemed to 
be muttering something unpleasant to his wife. 
There were, in fact, all the symptoms of un- 
easiness in regard to an uncontrollable guest. 
No one knew where this might stop. 

Just as Mrs. Paxton came suddenly forward 
to her husband she caught sight of herself in 
a mirror opposite. The black and cerise gown 

[92] 


Marie Twists the Key 


certainly set off her white neck and arms as 
she moved with dignified grace; her blue eyes 
were larger and more luminous, her cheek 
deeply rosed; she looked unexpectedly handsome, 
while she said pleasantly, yet in the tone no man 
disregards: 

“I think we had better be carrying ourselves 
off now, Beverly. It is growing late.” 

“Oh, well — if you say so,” returned her 
husband with reluctance. 

“It’s too bad to break up an evening like 
this,” protested Donald Bannard. 

“Oh, we’ll continue it,” said Mr. Brentwood 
with hospitable intent. “We’ll have a series 
of evenings while Miss Davis is here, one 
at each house. I know you won’t be able to 
keep Paxton away!” 

“Not unless I’m put in irons,” agreed Beverly. 
He openly squeezed Miss Davis’ hand at parting, 
while she leaned forward very close to his face, 
her enormous, dark-circled violet eyes full of 
preposterous extravagant meaning as they 
gazed into his while his laugh answered her. 
If they had all been at the silly age, ignorantly 
untrammelled, the thing might have had an 
excuse. 

“You’re looking very well. Did you have 
a nice time to-night?” the husband asked 
his wife vaguely after they were home. He 
bent forward to kiss her, also vaguely, as if 

[93 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


some other emotion wrapped him round, and 
he saw her dimly yet agreeably through it. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered indifferently, bend- 
ing over to pick up a glove so that the intended 
salute was lost. 

As she lay on her bed that night, her mind 
luminously clear, she felt that if he had been 
fascinated by a woman who was really beautiful 
and charming, some one of his own kind, she 
could have understood, appreciated — nay, even 
though she might have been madly jealous, 
have yet genuinely sympathized with his in- 
fatuation. But to make an exhibition of him- 
self over a girl so excruciatingly in bad taste, 
beneath all her tawdry, artificial attraction — 
yes, so flagrantly common as “Murree!” gave 
Dorothy not even any thrill of jealousy; it 
left her cold. She regarded her husband from 
a region remote and unattached, as if he were 
somebody she didn’t know but rather disliked: 
he was somebody she didn’t know if he could 
be attracted by a girl like that! To be sure, 
all the others had behaved foolishly, but not 
like Beverly — it was not the same. 

She thought of him curiously, yet with 
indifference. The superstructure of her wedded 
life seemed to have crumbled; for the first 
time in nine years she felt a strange proud 
freedom of not being married to him at all, as 
if the children were only her children, her life 

[94] 


Marie Twists the Key 


her own, something in which she herself no 
longer had any need to count on him or hang 
upon his pleasure. She slept calmly, with 
existence on this new stationary plane, and 
entered as calmly, after the first inevitable 
jar of waking, on the day. 

If all the men on the station platform the next 
morning had a slight shamefacedness about them 
there was no wife to see its cause — even Miss 
Davis, contrary to expectations, was not there. 

Neither, as turned out the following day, 
was she at the Crandalls’ . All kinds of queer 
rumours were abroad, whispered by excited 
women as they grouped magnetically coming 
in or out of Atkinson’s, or Bolt’s Emporium. 
Lucia Bannard herself was authority for Mrs. 
Iverson, who had been obliged to walk into the 
village in default of the chauffeur with whom 
Miss Davis had gone off. It wasn’t a real 
elopement; they had been married secretly a 
year ago and separated afterward. It was 
rumoured that there had been a disgraceful 
scene at the Crandalls’ when he had jeal- 
ously demanded his wife. It was rumoured 
that he had gone to kind Mr. Brentwood for 
money — it was rumoured that he was a Hun- 
garian count — it was rumoured that he was a 
Russian nihilist. All that Mrs. Iverson could 
say was that, whatever else he might be he 
certainly wasn’t a gentleman. 

[ 9S 1 


Refractory Husbands 


But Mr. Paxton heard no word on the 
subject from his wife. When he came home 
from town the following night, furtive-eyed, 
but loudly cheerful, to ask casually if she knew 
about that affair of Miss Davis and the chauffeur, 
she merely said, Yes, she did, listened to his 
comments politely and changed the subject. 
Later in the evening when the Bannards and the 
Chandors happened in, with the livened air 
and mental stimulus that a near-scandal brings 
to a suburban community, Mrs. Paxton, though 
hospitably disposed toward the conversation, 
kept entirely out of it. No word in deroga- 
tion of the pyrotechnical Marie escaped her 
lips; what the girl had or hadn’t done was as 
indifferent to her as her husband. She was 
conscious that he was secretly watching her; 
once he put his arm around her, an unusual 
manifestation of affection in public, but it 
brought no flush to her cheek. 

As the days wore on, even to the hypnotized 
consciousness of a husband as a rule impercep- 
tive to change, there was something oddly differ- 
ent about Beverly Paxton’s wife. She was as 
attentive to his wants, as scrupulously careful 
of his comfort as ever, but the atmosphere 
had changed dully. Something ineffable that 
warmed and cheered and restored and ten- 
derly covered all his imperfections no longer 
emanated from her presence. He was left, a 

[96] 


Marie Twists the Key 

naked soul, to wander lost and alone among the 
elements. 

It was toward the end of the week that she 
heard his step swinging up the walk with an 
unusual ring in it. When she went down to 
greet him he presented her, still furtive-eyed, 
with a large bunch of roses. 

“I saw them in the Terminal and thought 
you might like them/’ he explained carelessly. 

“They’re exquisite. Thank you so much,” 
said his wife nicely. 

“And, by the way, I came out with Bannard 
to-night. I said we might go over there for a 
while this evening if you felt like it. We 
haven’t been there for a long time.” 

“Aren’t you too tired?” asked his wife re- 
mindingly. 

“Oh, no! It’ll do me good — wake me 
up,” returned her husband with heartiness. 
“I was talking to Bannard. We think of 
making up a little party — he says his wife 
hasn’t been out so much as she ought since 
the baby came. What do you think of coming 
in Saturday to dinner — there’d be the four 
of us — I can’t get off in the afternoon — and 
going to the theatre afterward? What do you 
say to our having a little lark just among our- 
selves?” His arms were round her, his eyes 
searched hers. Underneath his jovial manner 
was a strain of anxiety and something more, 

[97] 


Refractory Husbands 


something far deeper, a confessing, yearning, lov- 
ing note that spoke straight to her heart and set it 
beating. “ Would you like it, my Dorry, dear? ” 
“ Yes,” she whispered, with large eyes fixed on 
him; it seemed as if in another moment the tears 
that were gathering there must fall unless she 
smiled. That crust of ice that had lain about 
her heart suddenly melted from the constant 
fire hidden all the time below — the flame that 
burned for him; a fire that cleansed away in- 
stantly some inexpressibly corroding hurt, while 
it took that new-found freedom forever from her. 

Her husband put up one long finger to brush 
her chin and throat. “You have the whitest 
skin,” he remarked with tender irrelevance . 

“Miss Davis’ was much whiter,” said his 
wife demurely. It was the first time she 
had pronounced that woman’s name. 

“Miss Davis! Pshaw, she was all chalk,” 
said Beverly Paxton in careless disdain. With 
the fatal facility of mankind the very remem- 
brance of his thraldom was already joyfully 
fading. His wife had a wondering, lightninglike 
perception that what had meant so much to 
her all these days had, after all, been nothing 
to him except in so far as she had been affected 
by it. “I’ll tell you my candid opinion if you 
want it — Mrs. Beverly Paxton is the hand- 
somest and most attractive woman I know. 
You’re the only girl in the world for me!” 

[98] 


Meeting the Dog 














Meeting the Dog 

YOU’RE looking for a house, Mrs. 

II Wilmer, why don’t you take the Merriam 
cottage? It will be snapped up before you 
know it. I hear that the Merriams are going to 
separate, but I’m not surprised. / think when 
a man begins to keep things from his wife you 
can always scent trouble ahead.” 

Mrs. Roberts rolled her fine eyes expressively, 
as she leaned forward in to the circle, letting 
her completed string of paper cherry blossoms 
fall into her lap. All the women gathered in 
Mrs. Brentwood’s comfortable library were 
making floral decorations for a Japanese Bazaar 
— at the behest of Mrs. Bantry, an ardent pres- 
ident of the club — with more or less concealed 
discontent in the work at this busy time of the 
year, Mrs. Chandor having anxiously confided 
to her neighbour that little Lucile didn’t have 
a petticoat to her name, and Lucia Bannard 
responded that she hadn’t had a chance to wash 
her hair for a month. Every one looked up 
now as Ethel Roberts went on speaking: 

“ Don’t you think, Mrs. Brentwood, that a 
[ IOI ] 


Refractory Husbands 


wife ought to be able to win her husband’s 
confidence? ” 

“Why, I suppose so,” said stout, kind Mrs. 
Brentwood, somewhat vaguely. For her own 
part she couldn’t have kept her big middle-aged- 
boy of a husband from telling her everything 
if she tried: there had been weak moments 
when she had half wished that he wouldn’t 
tell her quite so much! Her eyes and Mrs. 
Ridgely Ferguson’s met, as if swayed by the 
same feelings, before her mind reverted to the 
facts mentioned. 

“Are you sure about the Merriams?” 

“Oh, yes! I heard it — let me see, I’ll tell 
you when it w T as; it w^as the night after your 
husband met the dog, Mrs. Wilmer — we all 
thought it was quite an adventure! That was 
Friday, wasn’t it?” 

“When Jack met the dog! He didn’t tell 
me anything about that,” said young Mrs. 
Wilmer blankly, flushing the next moment up 
to the roots of her beautiful copper red hair. 

“He didn’t!” Mrs. Roberts looked astonished 
but instantly recovered herself. She was a 
woman of almost brutal tact; you couldn’t 
escape from it; she soothed and sympathized 
and helped you up when you didn’t want 
assistance, and made you seem horribly rude 
when you frantically repelled it. She went on 
now with winning sweetness : 

[ 102 ] 


Meeting the Dog 


“Of course he wouldn’t — I understand 
Jack so well! he didn’t want to frighten you, 
what with the struggle with the tramp and 
everything; and dogs can be so dangerous! 
He just slipped naturally into telling me about 
it as we walked along together from the train — - 
it really seemed quite like old times once more 
as he said; such friends as we always were! 
Oh, it’s quite right that none of us see him now 
the way we used to before he was married — 
we all know that he has eyes only for his charm- 
ing young wife! You’re not going so soon?” 

“I must,” said young Mrs. Wilmer, calmly, 
rising with apparent disregard of the secret 
glances levelled at her. She had a gentle 
manner which delusively covered at times 
the most incendiary feelings. “It’s growing 
late.” 

“Indeed, it is,” said Mrs. Iverson, rising. 
“My son will be coming home from town.” 

Every one began making preparations to go off 
in friendly groups and companies; only Clemen- 
tine Wilmer, in her red-brown suit and hat, with 
its long drooping willow plume that matched her 
hair, hurried off by herself. She was tingling 
all over with wrath at Ethel Roberts; it was 
maddening to have her act as if she alone 
saw around a situation, when one knew far 
more about it one’s self, but couldn’t say so. 
She remembered with a superior smile her hus- 

[ i°3 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


band’s irritable remark after he had walked 
home with Mrs. Roberts last Friday: 

“Why in time does Ethel always have that 
brute of a suitcase for me to carry whenever I 
meet her? I think Roberts goes on another 
train on purpose.” 

Why was she always hearing from Ethel how 
well every one knew Jack before he brought 
her here? She did not know that it was indeed 
almost a foregone conclusion that unless a youth 
grew up betrothed to his school-companion, he 
married out of the place; the intimate social 
notice focussed on his most ordinary atten- 
tions to a young woman usually crushing out 
the kindling flame in sensitive Man and sending 
him far afield. 

Mrs. Wilmer’s way led toward the two- 
family houses that with their green- topped roofs, 
and half-enclosed two-story verandas, stretched 
in a row monotonously down the block, with 
clayey patches of lawn in front, and bare, 
diminutive trees like lead pencils dwindling 
in sentinel line far along the curb that bor- 
dered the new, snow-sodden earth. She ap- 
proached with a feeling of intense repulsion, 
increased by the discomfiture of the afternoon. 
Last summer, when in the ardour of the ap- 
proaching wedding, the Wilmers had engaged 
the second floor of the seventh cottage, applaud- 
ing themselves for their economy, a glamour had 
1 104] 


Meeting the Dog 


hung over it that didn’t exist now; it wasn’t 
only that they had taken the wrong domicile — 
whose lower-floor family seemed to absorb 
eternal hordes of messy, loud-calling children 
in their front piazza and walk, instead of the 
neat, immaculately tenanted dwelling farther 
down — but that the Wilmers had reached that 
stage of matrimony when they burned for a 
house to themselves. 

To enter this place now added to the revolt 
of Mrs. Wilmer’s mind; she could hardly wait 
for her husband’s return, as she donned her 
pretty lilac and white house-gown, and set to 
work getting the dinner — she was a good cook — • 
in the absence of the maid. Mrs. Wilmer had 
charm, there was no doubt of that; there was a 
kittenish grace in the swift movements of her 
rounded figure; in a kitchen apron with a bib 
her piquant loveliness was as evident as in a 
ball dress. Unmarried men whom her husband 
brought to the house were moved by her 
charm, not to love of her, but to a fascinated 
leaning toward marriage itself; it was certain 
that Leslie Iverson, on his last visit from the 
West to his family, had proposed to Winifred 
Brentwood after a dinner at the Wilmers’. 

Mr. Wilmer was wont to allude to his wife’s 
red hair in delighted explanation of the fervid- 
ness of her likes and dislikes; the hair was of a 
beautiful copper colour, but the strain of red 

[105J 


Refractory Husbands 


was undoubtedly present; it showed now in the 
way she greeted her husband, holding off as he 
bent to kiss her. He was five or six years older 
than his wife, neither particularly good looking, 
nor tall, nor distinguished in any way, but he 
had strong, clasping hands, a direct eye, and 
a nice expression. Clementine often said with 
satisfaction that he was a “very man-y kind 
of man” 

“No, I don’t think I’ll let you kiss me to- 
night. I’m perfectly furious at you! Your 
friend, Mrs. Roberts, has been giving me 
information about you this afternoon.” Her 
voice rose tragically. “Why on earth, Jack, 
didn’t you tell me about your meeting the dog?” 

“Meeting the dog!” Mr. Wilmer held off, 
himself looking down at her perplexedly. 
“You’re raving, Teen! I don’t know anything 
about meeting a dog!” 

“Yes, you do! Mrs. Roberts — I know sne 
was the hopeless passion of your life ! — said 
that you had an adventure with one. You 
told her about it the night you walked home with 
her and were so disagreeable afterward because 
you carried her suitcase.” 

“Oh, that!” said Mr. Wilmer, in undisguised 
relief. “Why, that was nothing — nothing at 
all! I give you my word I haven’t thought 
about it from that minute to this.” He sat 
down suddenly in a big chair and drew his wife 

[ 106] 


Meeting the Dog 


down on the arm of it. ‘Til tell you now, if 
you want me to. There was a dog had hold of a 
cat, and ” 

“I don’t want you to tell me now, after 
everybody else has talked of it! I refuse to 
listen. Do you know what you do, Jack 
Wilmer?” Clementine had her hand in one 
of his; she emphasized her words by soft thumps 
with the other little fist. “You go and tell 
everything to the first person that comes 
along, and then forget to say a word to me — ■ 
and it’s got to be stopped! It’s bad enough to 
have every one telling me what you always liked, 
and how you took your coffee, and the care 
you need because you’re so susceptible to cold’ 1 
— a specially vicious thump emphasized the 
words — “without having to learn your affairs 
now from other people. There was your 
cousin’s engagement that you never told me of, 
till I heard it from your mother — and the 
time you left the parcel in the train — and 
when you took Mr. Bannard to the doctor’s, 
and — oh, I couldn’t count the times! And 
this very afternoon, before the whole club, 
when Ethel Roberts spoke of your meeting 
the dog, and I didn’t know about it — it 
made me look like such a fool! They all pity 
me; yes, they do!” The tears came in Mrs. 
Wilmer’s shining eyes for a moment, but she 
laughed through them, audaciously, with a 

[ 107] 


Refractory Husbands 

lovely, glittering, rainbowlike effect. “No! 
Wait a moment. Ill give you fair warning. 
If I hear from any one else of your meeting 
any more — dogs, I’ll get even with you. 
Do you hear?” 

“You shock me,” said Mr. Wilmer with 
ferocity. He pulled his wife down into his 
arms and kissed her fondly. 

“Oh, I’ll shock you a great deal more before 
I get through,” she murmured, with her cheek 
pressed close against his. 

“You won’t have to. I promise to remember 
to tell you every single thing I know before 
I open my lips to any one else. Now, will that 
content you? Is dinner ready, Teen? — Then 
let’s go in.” 

II 

Yet, after all, it was only the next night, at the 
Japanese Bazaar that the incident occurred about 
which everybody talked so much afterward. 

There was no place in the town to hold 
anything of a publicly social nature but Beamley 
Hall, which had been built, apparently, to 
thwart as nearly as might be, the requirements 
of those who had to use it. Its high ceilings 
and bare drab walls successfully defied any 
adequate attempt at decoration, while the 
floor space was almost maddeningly small; there 
were no dressing-rooms and no kitchen; the 
[ 108] 


Meeting the Dog 


heroic women in charge of the restaurant— a box- 
like room approached through a dark and 
narrow passageway — wrestled with untold dif- 
ficulties in the way of heating and apportion- 
ing food, in the midst of unwrapping chill wet 
papers from melting pink blocks of ice-cream 
and sending them forth on relays of heavy stone 
china — as from unknown recesses of the earth, 
where gnomes might lurk — to satisfy the 
demands of patrons waiting at small tables bare 
of aught but the folded Japanese napkin, and 
a wilted flower in a glass vase. 

The fact that it was a Japanese Bazaar, 
with all the glamour of being called the Feast 
of Cherry Blossoms, was supposed to give an 
air of novelty to the scene; but all the garlands 
of paper flowers couldn’t conceal the fact that 
this was the same old Beamley Hall, or that 
the aprons, and the innumerable coloured 
bags, and the crocheted slippers, and the gilt- 
edged china and perfume taken on commission 
by the lady who had a friend in the business, 
were duplicates of articles displayed at past 
bazaars. 

It gave one a momentary start indeed, when 
the figure in the gorgeous stork-embroidered 
kimono turned around to show the gentle, 
mousey face and spectacled eyes of Mrs. Nefl, 
the wife of the cashier at the bank; familiar, 
matronly countenances and solid forms took 
1 109] 


Refractory Husbands 


on no unsuspected enchantment from the 
foreign garb, but rather the contrary. The 
very young girls, who swooped and fled, and 
came again down the room, their arms around 
each other, were no more attractive than in 
their usual bizarre dress; Lucia Bannard, 
who was undoubtedly handsome, still looked 
handsome, though tired, as if she might have 
been cleaning house all day; Eleanor Chandor’s 
delicate prettiness was eclipsed. 

Only young Mrs. Wilmer showed the magic 
transformation. Her cherry-red lips, her small 
white teeth, her glowing red-brown eyes with the 
black curved arches above them, her lustrous 
skin, her burnished hair, and lightly swaying 
form under the rope of cherry blossoms, gained 
a new brilliance, a fire from the gold-embroidered 
robe with its jewel-like colours which encircled 
her, and the polished green jade pins on either 
side of her head. As she perched on the outer 
edge of the apron booth late in the evening, 
laughing and talking, both men and women 
seemed perforce drawn her way; her husband, 
hovering near, couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

The people who had got up the Bazaar 
went from table to table, buying; others, 
pausing reluctantly by a booth, after furtively 
asking the price of an article, fled; the husbands, 
a minority, were yet nobly in evidence, pur- 
chasing bluffly, with manufactured hilarity, 
[ no] 


Meeting the Dog 

from pretty girls, and saying in secret to their 
wives: When are we going home? Mr. Brent- 
wood, good man, having just conveyed his 
sixth party of tired workers to and from the 
restaurant, stopped now in front of lovely Mrs. 
Wilmer where she stood the centre of a group 
formed by Mrs. Iverson, her son, Leslie, and 
his pretty fiancee, Winifred Brentwood, with 
the Crandalls, the Bannards, the Chandors 
and a few more. Mrs. Roberts, in a scarlet 
kimono, leaned across to say with business- 
like sprightliness: 

“ Don’t you want to buy out our table, Mr. 
Brentwood? We have these aprons and glass 
towels left, you see — such useful things!” 

“All right, 111 take the bunch,” said Mr. 
Brentwood shortly, with a sudden lapse of 
enthusiasm, throwing a bill on the table, and 
turning to his wife. “Most time to go home, 
isn’t it, mother?” The next moment, with the 
instinct of a gentleman, he sought to make 
up for a seeming discourtesy. 

“Just the very things for Winifred here, 
Mrs. Roberts; I’ll hand ’em over for her house- 
keeping outfit; it looks as if she’d be able to 
use ’em before long, now. I suppose you know 
that Leslie’s got a position here, and that he’s 
not going back to the wild and woolly West at 
all?” 

“Yes, indeed, I’ve been pouring forth my 

[mi 


Refractory Husbands 


congratulations ever since I heard it yester- 
day, said Mrs. Roberts. 

“Oh, isn’t it lovely l” exclaimed Mrs. Wilmer, 
impulsively. “To have you really stay with 
us, Winifred !” Her colour rose delightedly. 
“Why, perhaps we can live near each other. 
It seems almost too good to be true!” She 
had that strange feeling that comes to one 
suddenly in the midst of speaking that this 
was a subject in some incomprehensible way 
to be avoided; instinct warned her, but she 
wouldn’t heed it. “How glad you must all 
be!” 

“Yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Iverson, looking 
fondly at her handsome son. 

“Your husband says I’ll find out what work 
is, all right, Mrs. Wilmer,” announced Leslie 
with a laugh. 

“And how did it all happen? ” pursued Clemen- 
tine. “ I’m crazy to hear. Are you going to 
be with the Electrographic Company?” 

There was a sudden hush, an appalled si- 
lence. Mr. Wilmer, after a swift glance at his 
wife’s face, straightened up with a military 
effect, as if to take all that was coming to him. 
It was Leslie’s surprised voice that broke the 
stillness after a moment. 

“Why, your husband got me a place with 
his firm, Mrs. Wilmer — a mighty good place, 
too! I supposed of course that he’d told you. 

[ 112] 


Meeting the Dog 


He’s taken no end of trouble about it. I’m 
mighty thankful to him, I know that ! ” 

“Oh, a place in your firm,” said Mrs. Wilmer, 
gazing at her husband with a dazed expression. 
Her voice shook slightly, she flushed suddenly 
to the roots of her beautiful copper-coloured 
hair; one of her long jade pins, caught in the 
cherry blossomed post behind her, fell on the 
floor, and she stooped to pick it up. Her 
husband stooped for it also, a moment too late; 
she gave his coat-sleeve a furtive, furious 
little jab with it that pricked through the cloth 
to the skin. He started involuntarily; his 
jaw dropped, his eyebrows rose — unperceived 
by the others — in an extreme astonishment 
that turned the next instant into suppressed 
laughter. 

“Husbands all need educating, don’t they?” 
said Ethel Roberts with winning sweetness, 
rolling her fine eyes around the group, like 
marbles. “If you keep things from this dear 
little wife of yours, Jack, we’ll all quarrel with 
you; I’ll have to take you in hand, just as I 
used to, and lecture you myself.” 

“Ah, you see what the married man has to 
live up to, Leslie,” said Mr. Brentwood, gen- 
ially, while Mr. Wilmer tried vainly to catch 
his wife’s eye. 

Her whole slender person was electrically 
instinct with anger through all her wraps, 

[ ”3 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


when they finally left the hall to go home; 
she sheered off far from him in the street; he 
caught her small, wildly-beating fists capably, 
and held them tight in one of his under her cloak, 
while the other steered her along. 

“What a little spitfire!” he murmured laugh- 
ingly. “That was a dig you gave me! You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself, Teen, I 
wouldn’t behave like that for anything! It’s 
well for me that you don’t live in a country 
where the women carry daggers in their belts! 
Why, I’ll be afraid to go home with you in the 
dark, next. This is what comes of marrying 
a girl with red hair!” 

“Let me go!” cried Clementine, wrenching 
away ineffectually. 

“Let you go! I should think not.” He 
tightened his hold, controlling the situation, as 
she felt, by main strength. His voice changed 
the next moment. 

“What’s the matter? Teen darling — you’re 
not crying! A dear girl mustn’t let herself 

be made unhappy by such a little thing as 

Why, you know perfectly well I wouldn’t hurt 
a sweet wife for the world!” 

“But you have hurt me!” The tears were 
raining down her face, and she rested it mo- 
mentarily against his shoulder before holding 
off again. “You’ve hurt me dreadfully. What 
do you suppose all those people are saying about 

[ ini 


Meeting the Dog 


me now?” She mimicked Mrs. Robert’s tone. 

Dear Jack, it’s evident that his wife is really 
no companion for him; he never seems to tell 
her anything. Of course he loses a great deal.’ 
Oooh! And you promised me faithfully only 

yesterday How did it happen that you 

never told me about Leslie, when you knew 
I was so interested in him and Winifred?” 

“ Search me!” said Mr. Wilmer, deeply. “I 
give you my word that I thought I had told 
you, Teen.” They had reached their own 
domicile, the moonlight spearing out the lead- 
pencil trees in thin black shadows down the 
street. As they entered their apartment 
after plodding silently up the stairs, he turned 
and faced his wife thoughtfully where she 
stood under the gas jet, in the jewel-like 
kimono, the light falling on her lovely up- 
turned face. 

“I just remember now that I was thinking 
all the way home last night how pleased you’d 
be; honest! And then when I came in you 
began all that yarn about my meeting a dog, 
and Leslie went clear out of my mind and I 
never thought of him again. I’m awfully 
sorry. Let up now, Teen, dearest, won’t you? 
Don’t you think you’ve cried enough? Suppose 
we pretend it’s over. I won’t forget again.” 

“If you do!” threatened his wife tragically. 
She looked at him with swimming, appealing 

[ns] 


Refractory Husbands 


eyes, and then flung herself upon his breast, 
and strained her warm arms tightly around his 
neck. “Oh, if you do, I’m afraid I won’t 
love you any more!” 


Ill 

What force of suggestion is it that makes one 
so often succumb to temptation just after 
strenuous resolving to the contrary? It is as 
if the unusual concentration on a higher purpose 
left the subconscious mind an easier prey to 
habit. If one could be successfully put in a 
comatose condition — chloroformed, as it were 
- — for ten days or two weeks, so that one’s better 
resolutions might have a chance to subcon- 
sciously root themselves, one’s further course 
might be much more satisfactory. Unfortu- 
nately, Jack Wilmer was not subjected experi- 
mentally to any chloroforming process. 

The very next day after the Bazaar theWilmers 
received one of those annual letters from an 
agent requesting to be informed at once as 
to whether they wished to take their two-family 
section for another year, as it was being already 
inquired for by other parties — an epistle 
which always produces a hurried, irritated 
state of mind and the feeling that the owner 
is only waiting to thrust in more desirable 
tenants. The Wilmers had for the last six 
[ n6] 


Meeting the Dog 

weeks gone through the disillusioning process 
of looking for the Perfect House at the Right 
Price. Most of the cheap houses to rent were 
new, boxlike affairs, miles from any station, 
or enormous mansard-roof dwellings in a 
state of decay. There was one in Vyner Street 
that was perfect, but the rent was ten dollars 
a month more than the Wilmers’ outside limit, 
and had been reluctantly but firmly put out 
of mind. The Merriam cottage headed the 
list of houses that were really possible, but by 
Saturday morning a buoyant, contrary feeling 
had evolved regarding haste; they agreed 
that they wouldn’t be forced into action yet; 
some more desirable house might be put on 
the market before they were obliged to decide. 

As usual on the Saturday half-holiday Clemen- 
tine went into town for luncheon and the matinee 
with her husband. There was still to her some- 
thing of the character of an adventure in the 
journey through the lower tube and the walking 
along those downtown streets; Trinity Church, 
looming up suddenly in the open space between 
the buildings at either side, pointed the way 
to Romance by the path of Wall Street. The 
very air was different from that uptown; 
in the wind that gallantly unfurled a brilliant 
flag here and there, there was a flavour of the 
sea that swept the Battery Wall, farther down; 
the ocean-going clouds seemed set in a bluer sky. 

[ 117] 


Refractory Husbands 


Strange, that a section given over to the prison- 
bondage of offices should be filled with such 
suggestion of wide and luring freedom ! But Mr. 
Wilmer’s manner, when he came out of his inner 
office to greet his wife, was disappointingly 
hurried. 

“I’m awfully sorry, Teen, but I can’t go 
with you after all. There’s a man here from 
the West — a customer — that I’ve got to take 
out to lunch.” 

“ Can’t you take me, too?” pleaded Mrs. 
Wilmer, trying to smile engagingly. 

“No, I’m afraid not — he wants to talk 
business. There may be something in it 
for me. Here are the theatre tickets; get some 
one to go with you. I’ll turn up for tea at the 
Venetia, if I can; if not, I’ll look for you in 
the third car going out.” 

“Very well,” said Clementine submissively, 
but with a depth of disappointment in the eyes 
which she lifted to her husband. 

His answered hers, for the moment, ten- 
derly. “I’ll see you to the elevator,” he sug- 
gested. He pressed her hand furtively as he 
hastened her along the corridor. “I’d have 
telephoned you if I’d had time, but everything 
has been on the jump this morning.” 

“Any news?” she inquired. 

He looked at her with a strained expression. 
“News? Not that I know of. What is it, 
[118] 


Meeting the Dog 


Blicker?” He paused as a youth delivered a 
message. “Tell him Ell be there at once. . . . 
Here’s your car, Teen; mind the step, dear. 
Good-bye ! ” 

He was already sucked away from her in the 
whirlpool of the business world before she was 
out of sight. 

She ate a solitary luncheon and annexed a 
stray and uninteresting cousin for the theatre. 
It was an unexpected pleasure later, on reaching 
the Venetia, although her husband wasn’t 
there, to be hailed by a party of women already 
seated by a red-candle-lighted table; Mrs. 
Chandor, Lucia Bannard, Mrs. Crandall, and 
Mrs. Roberts, very much plumed and white 
gloved, with a chair beside them piled high 
with cloaks and muffs and chain bags. 

“Well, if here isn’t another one! You’ve 
come just in time, Mrs. Wilmer. Waiter, 
bring another chair; there’s plenty of room. 
You never can come in here on Saturday after- 
noon without meeting some of the crowd.” 

“This is really very comfortable, not too 
near the orchestra,” said Elinor Chandor 
happily after all the orders had been given. 
“What did you see this afternoon, Mrs. Wilmer? 
Did you have a pleasant time? ” 

“Why, I expected my husband to be with 
me,” returned Clementine, an unconscious note 
of wistfulness creeping into her voice. “I 

[ 119] 


Refractory Husbands 

went to his office, but he was too busy to get 
away.” 

“I never feel as if they were really as busy as 
they say they are. I believe they can always 
get away if they really want to,” remarked 
Mrs. Crandall placidly. 

“Oh, if you went to Jack’s office, Mrs. Wil- 
mer,” cried Mrs. Roberts, “of course, then he 
told you ! ” Her big dark eyes rolled over toward 
Mrs. Wilmer. “I wasn’t going to breathe a 
word, if you hadn’t seen him. I think it is 
so mean to tell another person’s special news 
before he has a chance to!” 

“We will be so glad to have you for a neigh- 
bour,” said Mrs. Chandor. 

“A neighbour!” repeated Mrs. Wilmer, un- 
warily. 

“It certainly was fortunate that Jack heard 
about those other people on his way to the 
train and went and had it all settled up at once 
with the agent, or you would have lost the 
chance altogether,” continued Mrs. Roberts 
to Mrs. Wilmer’s mystified expression. “That 
was how he happened to go in to town with 
me on the 9:04. He was so sweet about carry- 
ing my bag, though he said he would be terribly 
late at the office. I told him that now he had 
taken the Merriam cottage ” 

“Taken the Merriam cottage!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Wilmer involuntarily. 

[ 120] 


Meeting the Dog 


“Why, didn’t he tell you?” asked Mrs. 
Roberts. She stopped short, staring; Mrs. 
Chandor looked at her plate. Mrs. Wilmer’s 
face evolved after an instant’s strange contor- 
tioning into a brilliant, superior smile of com- 
prehension and amusement. Nobody would 
have guessed that her circulation had nearly 
stopped with the effort; her hands were icy 
chill as she went on brightly: 

“Isn’t Jack the most absurd fellow!” She 
appealed to the tableful at large, tingling sud- 
denly with the audacious resolve to conquer 
this situation anyway. “Half the time when 
people question him” — she paused impercep- 
tibly — “he doesn’t know what he answers! 
He gets more and more absent-minded every 
day. No wonder I was surprised when you 
spoke of the Merriam cottage, Mrs. Roberts; 
it is the Vyner Street house that we have 
taken!” 

“The Vyner Street house!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Roberts, bewilderment in her tone. She stuck 
to the point. “Aren’t you mistaken? He 
certainly told me — — • He said the Vyner Street 
house was much too expensive.” 

“ It certainly is,” agreed Clementine. “ There 
are occasions, however, when a man feels it 
best, you know, to make the effort.” She turned 
laughingly to the others. “I see that Mrs. 
Roberts doesn’t quite believe me ; but I assure 
[ 121 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


you that it is the Vyner Street house — and 
I ought to know.” 

“Well, if you will put me in such positions, 
I have to do something to defend myself,” 
said Clementine impishly, later, as she ended 
her recital to her husband. She was sitting 
in the third car with him. 

“Oh,” said Mr. Wilmer. When she had 
reached her climax his jaw had fallen and his 
eyebrows lifted in the same astonished fashion 
as when she had stuck him on that other 
occasion with her jade pin. He regarded her 
now thoughtfully. He had a masterful way 
at times of holding her hands down spiritually 
as well as literally; she was too dear to be allowed 
to work her untrained will. There was a 
softening through his inscrutable gaze as he 
met her dazzling red-brown eyes, full of elfish 
defiance; her red-brown willow plume danced 
over the copper brown hair with its strain of 
red; her face, with its cherry lips and white 
teeth, seemed full of tantalizing, provocative 
light as she poured forth fiery, disconnected 
sentences. Every man around appeared to be 
buried in his newspaper, yet every eye, Jack felt 
was drawn her way. 

“Nothing has gone right since you began by 
meeting the dog! I’m not going to care for 
you any more! I’ll pay that extra rent out of 
[ 122 ] 


Meeting the Dog 


my allowance; I won’t buy any more clothes 
for a year. If you think I could possibly live 

in the Merriam cottage after That woman 

sets my teeth on edge; I can’t stand her. 
Can’t you see that I had to get the best of her?” 

“Yes, I see,” said her husband deliberately. 
While she talked he had perhaps been planning 
ways and means of getting out of one contract 
and into another; the man from the West had 
meant a good thing. “But why do you speak 
of giving up your allowance, Teen? Of course 
you knew I would make sure where the money 
was coming from when I took the Vyner Street 
house.” 

“Before you took it!” Clementine gasped. 
“ Did you take it, then?” 

“Am I not telling you?” asked Mr. Wilmer, 
with masculine dignity. 

“But Mrs. Roberts said ”. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Teen, drop Ethel 
Roberts! You’ve got her on the brain. I 
never told her a single thing about the Vyner 
Street house, I give you my word of honour. 
Can’t you understand that I’m telling you , for 
the first time, now? If she was gassing about the 
Merriam cottage I can’t help it, can I? You’d 
better call a halt, Teen, after this; you see once 
for all, how foolish you are to think I don’t tell 
you things. I hope the Vyner Street house 
satisfies you; it certainly does me.” 

1 123 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


“But I don’t understand!” said Clementine, 
helplessly. The train was already jarring into 
the station, but she paused as she rose. 

“Do you mean to say • — why, it’s all perfectly 
ridiculous! You have me so twisted , Jack, on 

purpose Mrs. Roberts — you think you 

have the best of me, but ” 

“The incident,” said Mr. Wilmer, magisteri- 
ally, “is closed. I wish to hear no more about 
it. Come on, Teen!” A triumphant and 
dancing gleam showed itself momentarily in his 
eyes as he bent over to help her down the 
high step. “Now will you be good?” 


[ 124] 



► 































Marrying Willow 

THINK Willow should be told that she 
JJ ought to marry him !” Mrs. Bantry, a very 
*** stout, black-haired woman in brown, spoke 
emotionally. 

The few members of the cooking lecture 
class, just out from an ineffective Thirty 
Minutes with the Saratoga Chip, stood on 
the corner of Main Street, the differing feathers 
in their hats all wildly blowing, as they talked 
in an intimate group before parting: they were 
all matrons, though of various ages, from the 
bridal Winifred Iverson to her mother, Mrs. 
Brentwood. The attendance on Miss Willow 
Walter’s Talks, on whatever subject, from the 
Minor Prophets to her present cooking series, 
had dwindled alarmingly of late, only the inner 
circle of the faithful remaining to pay that 
pitiful two dollars for the course. 

“It does seem to me that when things have 
come to this pass — ” Mrs. Bantry was going 
on more emotionally. “What income there 
was, stopped when her father died; and now 
I hear that the house — they never paid any 

[ 127] 


Refractory Husbands 


taxes on it — is to be torn down to make way 
for the new street. They’re going to rebuild 
the Guild room, so she has to give up her Talks, 
though that’s no loss to me: she may know about 
the Prophet Ezra, but she knows nothing about 
cooking; besides, as Mr. Bantry always says, 
there is no nourishment in a Saratoga Chip! 
But how that poor girl is going to get along 
I don’t know; in these days women know how 
to do things, and she doesn’t. I heard for 
a fact that last week that she lived on a 
dollar forty-nine” — Mrs. Bantry paused with 
agitation. “I couldn’t sleep last night think- 
ing of it. Of course she’s so close-mouthed 
she never tells you a thing. And she’s so 
unbusinesslike! If you do her the least little 
kindness she goes and buys you flowers! And 
just now — when she seems to have come to 
the jumping-off place — to have a perfectly 
good, respectable man like Mr. Porch offer 
to marry her — he’s not rich, but he can lift 
her out of this awful struggle — I call it Prov- 
idential!” 

“Of course, Mr. Porch is — well, of course, 
we know he’s ‘not quite ,’” ventured the elder 
Mrs. Iverson. “Not quite,” was her delicate 
synonyme for those in a slightly lower scale 
of refinement. “But every one says he is a 
very excellent man; he is so good to his 
mother; and I have always heard that very 
[ 128] 


Marrying Willow 


large ears are a sign of a generous disposition. 
It is rather a pity, perhaps, that he has so 

many children, but ” She broke off with 

a sigh. “Mr. Iverson always admires Willow’s 
air and manner, and he says she is so restful; 
although he is slightly deaf, he can always 
hear everything she says.” 

“Well, I think Mr. Porch is a very nice 
man indeed. I shall never forget how kind 
he was that time I was trying to get Ellen 
into the hospital,” said Mrs. Bannard em- 
phatically. Lucia was a very handsome young 
woman with dark eyes, glowing cheeks, and 
an impulsive manner. A vision of the solid 
Mr. Porch with his sandy hair and gray suit 
materialized before her. “If Willow — hush, 
here she comes now.” 

They all stood looking after Miss Walters 
a moment as she passed swiftly by, as usual, 
with that effect of flying from something 
that pursued her. When a person wears 
overshoes on a perfectly dry day, there can 
be but one interpretation of the act; the 
meagre black jacket and hat showed poverty 
in every line, though she carried her tall, very 
thin figure with a peculiarly graceful ease, her 
small head drooping slightly to one side. Her 
small face was colourless, and her pale lips 
drooped also slightly at the corners. She had, 
however, very beautiful blue eyes veiled by 
[ 129] 


Refractory Husbands 


a misty haze, through which she seemed to be 
striving to understand Life. They had at times 
an indefinably helpless and pathetic expression 
which appealed to the inherent chivalry of every 
married man who knew her. 

Colourless as she seemed, she had had the 
strangely startling experience of once being en- 
gaged for a short time to a young English- 
man, an attractive, delicate fellow, who was 
found afterward to be married; he swore he 
had thought his wife was dead. Those who 
knew told of the telegram received by Willow 

— a lightning stroke — and that anguished 
parting afterward between the miserable 
lovers. Willow had been found lying face 
downward on the matted floor of the sitting- 
room by the faded green rep lounge, with the 
lengths of black stovepipe overhead. An odd 
flavourrbf romance had clung to her since from 
the fact that she passionately refused to hear 
him blamed, flying into incongruous, shattering 
tears and fury at any hint of it. It seemed 
to show something — a spirit of daring, perhaps 

— different from what any one would expect 
in Willow. The wife had really died after- 
ward, but he had married again in Australia. 

Ever since then Willow had lived, gentle, 
repressed and reticent, in a tumble-down 
house with an incredibly old father, who seemed 
to have lost all power of human companionship 

[ 130 ] 


Marrying Willow 


in the mere tottering effort to live, until his 
death a year ago. 

“I met Willow Walters in town to-day,” 
said Donald Bannard that night as he sat in 
the cosy, red-curtained upstairs sitting-room, 
smoking by the log fire, his long legs over 
one arm of the chair, and his curly head at 
an appropriate angle, while Lucia, in a blue 
gown, mended his gloves with fierce little 
pats and pulls at the fingers. 

“By George, it’s a shame about that girl! 
She looks as if she didn’t get enough to eat. 
She was with that woman who lodges with 
her; a weird old party, with a black wig, a 
purple bonnet with strings, a sense of humour 
and a cultivated accent; she might be worse.” 

“Willow has a perfect genius for lodgers 
who never pay her,” interpolated his wife. 

“I took them both to lunch. Bassenden was 
with me — the man we met at the Iversons’.” 

Lucia let the gloves drop, her face flushed, 
ecstatically. 

“Mr. Bassenden!” 

“Yes, he doesn’t go back to Denver until 
his boy gets out of the hospital, next Friday. 
Well, we gave those two women a bang-up 
luncheon; I knew you’d want me to.” 

“Oh, why didn’t you telephone for me to 
come in, when you knew Mr. Bassenden was 
there?” cried Lucia poignantly. 

[ 131 ] 


/ 


Refractory Husbands 

“How could I? It was one o’clock then. 
Use sense, Lucia. At any rate, he’s coming 
to us for the Thursday Evening Club meet- 
ing next week.” 

“Not really ! How perfectly grand ! ’ ’ 

rl thought you’d be pleased. And by 
the way, Lucia, Willow gave me one of her 
cards with her new scheme on it: Orders 
taken for dinners, luncheons, suppers a spe- 
cialty. I thought you might pay her to take 
the supper in charge — the baby takes up so 
much of your time now that he’s teething.” 

“Well, of all things! Here this morning 
you were preaching economy to me, and now, 

because you think of this yourself ” She 

appealed, with flushed cheeks, to the Uni- 
versal Spirit of Womankind. 

u Aren’t men funny l They hate to spend 
twenty-five cents for a new gas bracket, but 
when it comes to big things! All right, if 
you’ll pay.” 

“I’ll pay. We’ve got to do something to 
help her. Willow will get the chance to 
be upstairs with us part of the time, won’t 
she?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then that’s settled. Speaking of Wil- 
low,” Mr. Bannard reared his handsome head 
indignantly; “I heard about Hen Porch to- 
night, and I think it’s a darned shame! If 

[ 132] 


Marrying Willow 


that’s all you women can do, to let her marry 
Hen Porch!” 

“Stop banging the table. You shake the 
lamp! Donald Bannard, do you know how 
old Willow is?” 

“No, and I don’t want to. She’s a lovely 
girl, that’s what she is! If she hasn’t mar- 
ried before this, it’s because young men are 
so stuck on themselves they don’t know a 
good thing when they see it, and that awful 
father of hers was enough to keep any one 
away. But she hits it off with a married 
man all right. That fellow who liked her 
first was married — that’s what gave him 
sense. She’s the kind a married man can 
talk to without any foolishness about it: she’s 
sweet and she’s restful and she keeps track of 
what you’re telling her without any inter- 
ruptions — and her eyes make you feel that 
you’re a big strong man. Bassenden said he 
hadn’t enjoyed meeting a woman so much in 
a long time. And then you talk of Hen P or chi 
What I can’t see is, why you women haven’t 
got together before now, and married her off 
once for all. You just selfishly enjoy your 
own perfectly good husbands, and don’t do 
a thing for her.” 

“Donald Bannard ” 

“Oh, yes, I know all you are going to say. 
I’m vulgar, of course. But what is the use 

[ 133 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


of women howling for the vote and bragging 
of the way they’ll rule for the good of every 
one, if they can’t so much as marry off one 
sweet, unprotected woman in their midst? 
I could, if I got busy, I know that.” 

“Then why don’t you?” 

“Very well, I will. I’ll ask old Hooker 
out. He hasn’t been here in ages.” 

“Mr. Hooker ” 

“There you go! You’ve never forgiven 
him for being fat, and for eating up mush- 
rooms when you didn’t have enough. Well, 
if he is fond of his food, all the more reason 
why he should take to Willow. I’ll tell him 
it’s her show, and he’ll be struck by her ability. 
You reach a man’s heart through his stomach. 
At any rate, he’s a gentleman — he’s no Hen 
Porch. Mrs. Bannard, have the goodness to 
stop. I wish an end to this unseemly brawl. 
I want to read.” 

In the Bannard family there was never any 
real conversation — one or the other of them 
held the floor. Only Lucia, of course, had the 
last word. “I do think Mr. Porch is a very 
nice man,” she said, before she gave herself 
up to the delightful anticipation of entertaining 
Mr. Bassenden. 

Good food was the cult of the Thursday 
Evening Club; supper had much to do with 

[134] 


Marrying Willow 


the popularity of the house where it was served. 
It was always rather difficult, for instance, to 
get the men to the Iversons’, where the enormous 
silver trays offered one the most minute of 
pates, a mouthful of marblelike pink and green 
ice, sandwiches the size of postage stamps, 
and a thimbleful of coffee. On the other hand, 
there was also a feeling of tempered enjoyment 
toward the Crandalls, where the black walnut 
table with its blue doilies, worked by old 
Mrs. Crandall, was spread with platters of 
lukewarm rarebit and a salad that delusively 
aroused anticipation by simulating the festive 
lobster, when it was really only the same old 
apple and Spanish pepper, with a mayonnaise 
that left no impression on the mixture. The 
Brentwoods, of course, excelled every one else 
in their chicken and mushrooms, and hot 
biscuits; the Chandors and Paxtons ran a 
close second; Lucia herself always strove to 
have something original as well as good. 

The prospect of having Mr. Hooker in 
Willow’s behalf, combined with the honour of 
entertaining Mr. Bassenden, made her feel 
that no effort could be too great. 

Mr. Bassenden had happened to stay 
over night the week before at the Iversons’ 
when the Club had its last meeting; he had 
known Mr. Iverson some years ago in Den- 
ver, the latter, as a semi-invalid, having later 

[ 135 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


somewhat lost track of his friends. Those 
who had met the stranger, the women espe- 
cially, looked back upon it as an Event. 

He was a man of forty-five or so, remark- 
ably handsome in a large, clean, masculine 
way; he had a broad forehead under his thick, 
waving, slightly grayish hair; his eyes were 
brilliantly blue; his nose was straight, his 
chin square, and very white teeth showed 
when he smiled delightfully. He had a certain 
gracefulness of power in every motion of his 
tall, rather solid, square-shouldered figure, 
when he leaned on the mantelpiece talking 
to Mr. Iverson, or brought a chair forward 
for Mrs. Bantry. He had a quiet, but charm- 
ing manner that seemed to be the outcome of a 
noble nature. Magnetism radiated from him; 
wherever he stood, was easily the centre of 
the room. 

That he was one of the finest men Mr. 
Iverson had ever known; that he was very 
wealthy; that he had told Mr. Iverson he 
had come East to visit a sick boy at school; 
that his wife — whom Mr. Iverson remem- 
bered as a very domineering woman, had 
died some years before; that he and his brother 
Arthur had lived alone in his magnificent 
house in Denver, but that he himself was to 
be married and bring a new mistress there, 
were all component parts of slight information 

[ 136] 


Marrying Willow 


gleaned by eager questioners. Mr. Iverson, 
who was somewhat deaf, had at least understood 
that the fourth of the next month was the date 
of the wedding. To Mrs. Iverson, who had 
questioned Mr. Bassenden as to the bride- 
elect, the latter had simply replied: 

“ She is very beautiful.” 

It was impossible to pursue the subject of 
his personal affairs. 

The men admired his physical perfections 
with the ardour which only men evince to one of 
their own sex, while they unanimously voted 
him a good fellow; to the women he held an 
even stronger appeal to sentiment in a glamour 
such as might surround royalty, or a great 
tenor. His lightest word, or fleeting glance, 
seemed instinct with a subtle insight, a high, 
heart-to-heart appreciation. Each woman felt 
it meant for her alone, with a yearning impres- 
sion that she could say things to him that a 
lesser man wouldn’t understand. . . . Mrs. 

Bantry told, with shining eyes, how wonderful 
he was in picking up her handkerchief three 
times. 

“I can’t tell you what there was about it 
that made it different; it just simply showed 
that he never forgot you, even when he seemed 
to be absorbed in talking to some one else!” 

Later they had had an unfinished conver- 
sation on the presence of spirits. 

[ 137] 


Refractory Husbands 


Nineteen-year-old Audrey Brentwood had 
announced, in the brazen parlance of the day, 
that she was perfectly crazy over Mr. Bassenden. 
She didn’t care what his age was; if he were not 
going to be married already, he could have her! 

Mrs. Cranmore sent him over one of her 
celebrated fresh eggs for his breakfast. Elinor 
Chandor elaborately copied out a Scotch 
song that he said his mother had sung. Mrs. 
Wank sent him a repulsive, thin, gilded copy of 
her “Two Days in the Yellowstone,” which 
nobody had ever been known to read. Lucia 
Bannard herself impulsively wrote him a little 
note, beginning: 

“Just a line, dear Mr. Bassenden, to tell 
you how wonderfully I enjoyed your descrip- 
tion last night of the Oberammergau play. 
I thought you would like to know that you 
made it seem something more to me than it 
had ever been before. If I ever see it myself, 
I shall think of you.” But after all she didn’t 
send it; a vision of Donald’s raised eyebrows 
and pursed whistling lips made her feel foolish. 
As Elinor Chandor said, you didn’t need to tell 
things to a man like that; he understood with- 
out it. 

The only woman whom Mr. Bassenden 
hadn’t spoken to that night was Willow Walters. 
Mrs. Iverson said he had noticed her once 
sitting over by the dark green portiere, which 

[138] 


Marrying Willow 


showed off her drooping white-clad figure and 
her fairness, and had asked about her; Mrs. 
Iverson had given him a brief account of Wil- 
low’s history, and he seemed interested, but 
he didn’t seek her afterward, though it was dis- 
approvingly noticed that Willow, looking up 
once and meeting his eyes, had flushed. It 
was felt to be a little forward of her to blush 
so intimately. 

Lucia spent a morning in consultation with 
Miss Walters about the eventful Thursday, 
the latter bringing a selection of recipes and 
menus with her. Lucia saw her from the 
window as she came along accompanied by the 
candidate for matrimony, the excellent Mr. 
Porch, who as a contractor, didn’t go to town 
with the men. His plain, heavy-chinned face 
was agleam, but by the side of his solid com- 
monplaceness her air of delicate, fugitive aloof- 
ness seemed even more evident, as she hurried 
lightly along. 

To Lucia’s critical eye Willow looked un- 
usually well as she entered; a faint colour in 
her cheek appeared to be called forth by a long- 
stemmed deep crimson rose, in the front of 
her shabby, tight-fitting black jacket, that set 
off her whole costume, but her beautiful blue 
eyes seemed to have a more childlike and 
helpless look than ever under their haze. 

“Now, Mrs. Bannard,” she announced in 

[ 139] 


Refractory Husbands 


her sweet, low voice, “before we decide on 
the bill of fare, I want it understood that I 
am to have all the responsibility of this supper, 
or I will not undertake it at all. That is what 
you pay me for, and pay well. I will not 
accept one penny unless I do the work.” 

“Very well,” said Lucia meekly, but with a 
side glance at the speaker. Could Willow do it? 

“Then how would you like frogs’ legs en 
casserole , with nuts and whipped cream? That’s 
quite new.” 

“N-no, I don’t think men care much for 
nuts and whipped cream. As Mr. Bassen- 
den will be here, and a friend from town, a Mr. 
Hooker, I’d like everything to be very nice.” 

“Yes, indeed. I have a receipt — a very 
interesting dish made of the breasts of par- 
tridges. You chop them first, and then ” 

“You may skip that.” 

The lines in Miss Walters’ forehead began to 
show, the colour in her cheeks faded out. 

“How would you like individual oyster pies? 
Not pates, but deep English pies, served very 
hot, with celery and pickle sandwiches?” 

‘ ‘ That sounds good, ’ ’ approved Lucia, “ Very 
good,” she repeated, adding swiftly, “Why 
not have a nice chicken salad with that; they 
would combine well together, and be enough 
solid food, with the coffee.” 

“Very well. Then afterward you could have 

[ 140] 


Marrying Willow 


a fruit ice-cream with candied cherries and 
chestnuts in it, served with a clear orange 
jelly cut into strips, little frosted pound cakes 
and macaroons.” 

“That really is charming,” cried Lucia. 
“But you can’t see to all this yourself; of 
course, you’ll have Ellen in the kitchen, but 
she’s so inefficient; I do wish you’d let me 
help you.” 

“Thank you, but I have all the directions 
here,” said Miss Walters in her even tone, 
touching the papers in her hand. “If you’ll 
excuse me, I think I’ll be going now. I’ll make 
out my list of materials and quantities later.” 

“If you haven’t enough money ” 

“Oh, I’m sure I have enough.” 

“I wish you’d come to see me oftener,” 
said Lucia impulsively. 

“I have so little time ” 

“Yes, I know; but oh, haven’t things been 
terribly hard for you sometimes? I’ve been 
so sorry! Wouldn’t it perhaps be best now if — 
Please don’t mind if I ask — — ” Lucia stopped; 
Willow was gazing past her with something oddly 
bright in her smile. The sweet voice in which 
she spoke seemed to come from afar. 

“No, it hasn’t been so hard. I don’t know 
whether I can make you understand; sometimes I 
don’t understand myself, but I haven’t minded 
m}' life at all — truly I haven’t! Ever since 

[ hi ] 


Refractory Husbands 


something happened to me — that’s nine years 
ago — it’s just as if the real I had been put 
to sleep, drugged, I have just gone on and on, 
and on; it hasn’t made any difference, I haven’t 
minded until now. But . these last few 
days” — her lips suddenly trembled — “ they’ve 
changed it all; I’m getting terribly afraid I’ll 
wake up! That — that would be bad. I 
don’t know why I’m saying this to you — but 
you’re so sweet to me! When I come in a 
house like this — there’s something different 
in a house where people love each other; perhaps 
you don’t notice it, but I do.” She put both 
hands in Lucia’s and the two stood silent for 
a moment. 

“You have the prettiest place behind your 
ear,” said Lucia irrelevantly. 

Miss Walters suddenly flushed scarlet, as at 
some revealing remembrance. She put up one 
hand to her neck involuntarily as if to hide it 
from sight. 

“I really must leave! Give yourself no un- 
easiness about the supper; it will be all right,” 
she said in her usual tone, and was gone. 

“But I don’t know whether it will be all 
right or not!” Lucia said that evening to 
her husband, after she had got as far as this 
in her narrative. “Is Mr. Hooker coming?” 

“Yes; he remembered Willow.” 

“Have you seen Mr. Bassenden?” 

[ 142] 


Marrying Willow 


“Not to speak to. I saw him yesterday, 
though, in Fraunces Tavern, lunching with 
Willow.” 

“What?” 

“True as you’re born.” Mr. Bannard set 
his lips in a straight line as he met his wife’s 
eyes. “He’s a handsome brute, and no mis- 
take! They seemed to be having a very 
good time together. He took her into the 
florist’s afterward and bought her crimson 
roses. I happened to look through the win- 
dow as I passed.” 

“She had one on to-day,” said Lucia breath- 
lessly. “Donald Bannard! And you never 
told me a word last night!” 

“Why should I?” 

“Why should you! Anything as extraor- 
dinary as that ” 

“Not extraordinary at all. He’s an awfully 
nice fellow, and she’s a very lovely woman.” 

“What? When she hardly knows him, and 
he’s to be married next week? Stop hunching 
yourself together; I hate you when you make 
yourself look idiotic. Do you mean to say 
that if you were away in another city a week 
before we were married, you would have taken 
a girl out to lunch alone — I don’t care how 
old Willow is, she looked young enough to- 
day! — and given her crimson roses?” 

“I’d have given her sweet peas. I don’t care 

[143] 


Refractory Husbands 


for red roses,” said Mr. Bannard coolly, and 
then sat up straight. “ Lucia! Can’t you ever 
take a joke?” 

The prospect of having Mr. Bassenden at 
Lucia’s Thursday evening — he was to leave 
the next day for the scene of his marriage — 
gave it immense prestige. The men were 
careful that the business exigencies of the 
last of the month shouldn’t keep them away, 
and every woman felt that she had some- 
thing, particularly, to say to him in connec- 
tion with their last meeting. Elinor Chandor 
had formulated a long conversation on music, 
beginning with: “I noticed that you were 
fond of Scotch songs, Mr. Bassenden.” Gentle, 
quiet Mrs. Iverson had an anecdote of her 
son’s college days that she knew it would 
please him to hear; even Lucia Bannard found 
herself murmuring in imagination: “When you 
were speaking to me of Oberammergau, Mr. 
Bassenden, I forgot to say . . .” 

His coming had been a rival to the sub- 
ject of Willow, about whom everybody was 
in despair. It was whispered that not only 
was she not smiling on Mr. Porch, but that 
she had been seen around with Mr. Bassen- 
den. Every one felt somehow responsible for 
her indelicately hanging on his kindness in 
this way. “For he can’t like it,” Mrs. Bantry 

[ 144] 


Marrying Willow 


feelingly argued. “I think somebody ought 
to tell her not to. For all her quietness there’s 
always been something in Willow that you 
couldn’t explain.” 

All day the kitchen of the house of enter- 
tainment had been in a turmoil. Lucia, hear- 
ing her husband come in late — he had dined 
in town with Mr. Bassenden — rushed down 
to meet him with her tale of woe. 

“I thought you said she began so nicely 
yesterday,” he objected, hat in hand. 

“I did — but it’s all beginning! The poor 
thing doesn’t get anywhere; she doesn’t know 
how. She’s rolling her pie crust still with that 
composed air, while her fingers are trembling 
and there’s a red spot in each cheek. She 
won’t get any chance to play cards this even- 
ing! and she’s only made half enough of the 
chicken salad, and we’ve had to get the cake 
from the baker’s! Ellen helped her all she 
could, but the baby has kept me so tied down 
all day I couldn’t do a thing. Of course it 
puts me in a dreadful position! No, don’t 
take off your overcoat. I want you to go 
for two bottles of milk. Willow forgot to 
order it.” 

“Milk!” 

“Yes, you can get it at Lester’s, around 
the corner from Main Street; the little grocery 
that is always open.” 

t hs] 


Refractory Husbands 


“All right. Perhaps you didn’t notice Bas- 
senden’s here.” 

“Good evening, Mrs. Bannard,” said Mr. 
Bassenden coming forward. He looked hand- 
somer and more wonderful than ever in his fur 
overcoat, standing there tall and imposing, 
his thick, dark hair over his white forehead, and 
his brilliant dark eyes smiling down at her. 
“Let me go for the milk. I have the car here. 
Mr. Bannard, I know, has to dress.” 

“Oh, Mr. Bassenden!” breathed Lucia, all 
aglow. It was almost as if he might have 
been a relation. 

“But before I go I’ll ask you to take these.” 
He went down the hall and brought back a 
couple of boxes. “Just a few roses for you, 
and violets for Miss Walters. She’s helping 
you to-night, I understand. At the corner of 
Main Street, you said? I’ll be back in a few 
minutes.” 

Violets for Willow! In the midst of her 
own pleasure Lucia hadn’t time to analyze 
the shock the words gave her, or do more 
than take note, for future reference, of Wil- 
low’s downcast eyes. Before she knew they 
were upon her, the guests had arrived — Mr. 
Hooker, a small/ fattish gentleman with glis- 
tening shirt front and a black eyeglass ribbon, 
being all too evidently brought by the lure of 
food; complimentary reminiscences of the lob- 
[i 4 6] 


Marrying Willow 


ster once eaten under that roof forming part 
of his first greeting to Lucia. 

Everybody came at once. Even Mr. Iverson, 
who seldom left his own home in the evening, 
escorted his wife. The sight of Mr. Bassen- 
den’s fur coat on the rack in the hall seemed a 
delightful earnest of pleasure. There was an 
unusual rustling and preening in the dressing- 
room, where the cloaks and wraps were piled 
on the pink and lacy spare bed, before going 
down to meet the distinguished guest; Mrs. 
Bantry waiting with officious patience and a 
bitter smile for a chance to see her stout, newly 
corseted figure in the mirror before which all 
the women were dabbing on powder and 
instantly wiping it off again. The tide of 
excitement was running high. 

Yet from the first moment when, hastening 
downstairs, they caught sight of Mr. Bassenden 
talking to a group of men in the hall below, 
there was felt to be a vague, indefinable, but 
disappointing lack in him, though he was as 
royal looking and dominant as ever. He came 
forward with instant politeness, to be sure, but 
there was no warmth, no individuality in his 
greeting; it was, as Elinor Chandor said, as if 
he were meeting you for the first time; and he 
returned at once to the group of men, who were 
talking of the Senate, or the Market, or Polit- 
ical Corruption, with the tiresome oblivious- 

[147] 


Refractory Husbands 


ness which men show when they get on those 
subjects. Only whenever Lucia came into 
view, with a distracted face, he always saw her 
at once; starting up to go to her, and occasionally 
following her out of the room; they consulted 
together with that intimacy which is so satis- 
fying to the participants and which leaves 
everybody else on the outside. Mrs. Bantry, 
indeed, was so fortunate as to find herself later 
alone by him for a moment, but when she said, 
with tremulous sprightliness, referring to their 
former conversation: 

“This is indeed no night for spirits to be 
abroad,” he had only replied, “I beg your 
pardon?” as if recalling his wandering thoughts, 
and added, “Yes, I think the fog has lifted.” 

Afterward, instead of taking his allotted 
place at the card table with Mrs. Bantry 
and Elinor Chandor, he dropped into a chair 
by Mr. Iverson — to whom he had been heard 
talking, apparently, about his wedding next 
week — at a table over near the door, with old 
Mrs. Crandall in her black banded hair and 
black chenille shawl — who wasn’t meant to 
come — and pretty, quiet Mrs. Paxton, the 
only woman in the Club who had evinced no 
interest in him at all. He laughingly declined 
to change his position when the mistake was 
pointed out to him. It was very disappointing! 

A singular atmosphere seemed to settle 

[ 14 8 ] 


Marrying Willow 


down. With all the soft lights in the yel- 
low and mahogany-furnished room, the flowers, 
the pretty dresses, the air of general festivity, 
there was a pervading sense of stress behind 
the scenes. There were rumours that Willow 
was doing very badly. 

It became one of those blank evenings of 
entertainment whose parts have no cohesion; 
one might as well be out on a snowbank for 
all the social warmth evolved. 

Lucia kept going out and coming back with 
a still more distracted expression. Once there 
was a horrid smell of burning milk. She called 
her husband to her, and he disappeared, shrug- 
ging his shoulders as he returned. 

“ Looks as if we wouldn’t get much to eat 
to-night,” he suggested. “The oysters seem 
to have burned up, and the ice-cream is full of 
salt. I bid one on hearts.” 

Mr. Hooker had a bitter smile, as one lured 
out under false pretences. 

“If Lucia had asked my advice,” said old 
Mrs. Crandall to the guest of the evening, 
while the cards were being shuffled, “she would 
never have placed any dependence on Willow 
Walters. She is a very sweet woman, but she 
is incompetent in every way; my daughter-in- 
law finds it impossible to help her. The best 
thing for her to do is to marry Mr. Henry 
Porch. His mother keeps the house.” 

[ 149] 


Refractory Husbands 


“Ah, too bad, too bad,” said Mr. Iverson. 
“I understand Willow’s cottage is to be torn 
down next week, to make room for the street.” 
He added, in explanation to Mr. Bassenden. 
“Hard time she has to get along, poor girl; 
she needs some one to look after her. Hah! 
Something dropped in the kitchen! It sounded 
like Hendrik Hudson’s bowling ground.” 

“I play before you put your hand down, Mr. 
Bassenden,” stated Mrs. Paxton remindingly. 

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Bassenden. He 
waited with a visible effort while the lady 
studied her resources, and then, laying his 
cards on the table for dummy with one com- 
prehensive swoop, dashed out to Lucia Bannard 
in the hall, and disappeared with her in the 
regions beyond. 

A few minutes later he was seen emerging 
into the dining-room, carrying a large dish 
of apples and oranges in his steady hands, 
with Willow Walters’ slender white-aproned 
figure beside him. Her ordinarily pale cheeks 
were pink, her eyes, as she raised them, had 
their pathetically helpless look. The impetus of 
their conversation still carried them; he was 
leaning toward her and she toward him — there 
was something in the manner of both that inde- 
finably startled, before the two vanished once 
more. A few minutes later a chug-chug was 
heard by the card-players, and the lights of a 

[iso] 


Marrying Willow 


motor flashed past a window that had been 
slightly raised for the air. 

“ Where’s Mr. Bassenden? Isn’t he coming 
back?” asked Mrs. Paxton. 

“Why, he asked if we’d excuse him for a half- 
hour,” said Mr. Bannard with what seemed 
to be a mixture of embarrassment and jaunti- 
ness. “He — he’s gone out in the car for 
a few minutes. The fact is — he’s taking 
Willow — Miss Walters — out for a spin; the 
heat in the kitchen has been a little too much 
for her.” 

Old Mrs. Crandall sniffed. “Why, that’s 
very kind of him,” ejaculated Mrs. Ban try 
wonderingly. “Very.” She fell to playing 
cards with an air of detachment from her 
surroundings that became noticeable also in 
.the manner of the other women. Mr. Bas- 
senden, the star of the occasion, had been un- 
warrantably removed from them by Willow! 
And on this last night of his stay! That 
mysteriousness that had always been felt in her 
seemed to have come suddenly to the fore. 

And they were gone for a long time. . . . 

“I suppose she appealed to his sympathies, 
and he couldn’t refuse,” murmured Nell Cran- 
dall to Mrs. Bantry, as the game at last wore 
to a close. The men and women separated 
into two sections while they waited for supper, 
if there were indeed to be any. 

[151] 


Refractory Husbands 


“1 think it extremely tactless of her,” said 
Mrs. Bantry. 

Old Mrs. Crandall sniffed again. “I have 
always observed something in Willow — I 
can’t exactly explain what it is, that ” 

“ Ladies and gentlemen and fellow-citizens,” 
proclaimed Mr. Bannard, entering suddenly, 
‘‘I have the honour to inform you that our 
own supper being unfortunately not eatable, 
our distinguished guest, Mr. Bassenden, has 
returned to say that he has been making arrange- 
ments to have one imported from town, and that 
it will be here in half an hour. He wants this 
to be his party, as he is leaving to-morrow. In 
the meantime, would you like to take a look 
at the moon? It’s grand! Throw something 
around you all and come out!” 

Laughing and talking, even the morose 
Mr. Hooker, inspired by this unexpected 
lift to the occasion, the party trooped out- 
side on the hard ground that lay frozen in 
an atmosphere so windless that the air seemed 
benignantly soft and mild. The beauty of the 
moonlit scene, incomparably bright, stole into 
the senses, so that after a moment voices were 
hushed; they all stood silent, looking at it. 
All of a sudden some one, turning toward the 
house, uttered a shocked exclamation. Every- 
body turned to look that way. 

The shade had been drawn up from the kitchen 

[ 152] 


Marrying Willow 


window. Within, Mr. Bassenden stood with 
Willow, the light fell on both faces. His 
handsome head was bending over her, his face 
all tenderness, as he stood a little apart from 
her; he held her two hands in his, drawing 
her to him. But Willow! Was this the pale, 
colourless girl they had all known, this slender, 
spiritlike, exquisitely beautiful creature, with 
the violets at her bosom, her eyes starry, her lips 
parted, her cheeks rosed with an immortal 

flame? There was a moment 

with one impulse everybody turned away and 
tiptoed into the house, only Mr. Iverson break- 
ing the silence to say musingly: 

“Odd, the mistake I made about Bassen- 
den’s marriage. I am a little hard of hearing. 
He was explaining to me to-night that it is his 
brother Arthur who is to be married next week!” 

“Well, she certainly landed on both feet,” 
said Donald Bannard the following spring. 
He and Lucia had been at the opera the night 
before, occupying a box as the guests of Mr. 
and Mrs. Bassenden, just on a visit from Denver. 
“Did you twig the rope of pearls, and the 
white satin and the opera cloak? She’s a 
beauty, and he can’t keep his eyes off her. 
It’s a wonderful match; and to think I made it, 
after all you women had given up!” 

“You!” scoffed his wife, indignantly. 

[153] 


Thursday 







t 



















Thursday 

k 0, MRS. BRADY, I , m afraid you 
can’t clean Mr. Laurence’s room this 
next Thursday; the Thursday after 
that he goes off on his fishing trip, and we’ll 
get at it then.” 

“It’s t’ree weeks to-day, ma’am, since it 
was done t’orough.” 

“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Laurence, hatted and 
cloaked as she was on her return from town, was 
still in all the glow of wonderment at an extra- 
ordinary happening there occasioned by the 
merest chance; she had been thinking of it all 
the way out in the train, and it seemed a little 
difficult to adjust herself to those needs of the 
household which always rose up and smote her 
the moment she entered it. On her way up- 
stairs she had already telephoned for extra 
milk, changed perforce the order for dinner, 
and sent her eleven-year-old son Robert on 
that belated errand to the post-office to which 
he had daily to have insistent reminder. She 
stood now irresolutely in the doorway of her 
husband’s den, so-called, strewn from end to 

[ 157] 


Refractory Husbands 


end Hvith fishing paraphernalia; her eyes wan- 
dering over the groups of linen-cased rods 
stacked in the corners or on the lounge — he 
was always adding an absolutely necessary one 
to that overflowing, unusable stock — the blan- 
ketlike coat hanging over the back of a chair, 
the seven-league waterproof boots sprawling 
their astounding length over by the window, the 
immense green- japanned bait-pail in the centre 
of the floor, and the table, on which, in the 
midst of a toppling pile of magazines, a large 
and gorgeous leather tackle-box was surrounded 
by a bulging mass of reels, fly-books, green and 
red floats, matches and cigar stands, all covered 
with a light layer of dust on the edges; it 
was as much as even Mrs. Laurence’s life was 
worth to displace any article on that table. 

But she repeated firmly: “ We’ll get at it 
the Thursday following; I’ve just invited com- 
pany for this Thursday, anyway,” and turned 
away with a sigh after paying the worker, going 
into her own room to change before her hus- 
band’s homecoming; that unkempt den was 
the visible manifestation of a problem that 
seemed to have come to stay. For twelve 
years she and her husband had shared all their 
pleasures; they stayed home or went out in the 
evenings together, and by an un worded compact 
neither had ever left the other for a vacation. 
He had never wanted to do anything away from 

I 158 ] 


Thursday 


her; it was she who suggested their pleasures; 
she had felt herself the Dispenser of all Delights. 
It had become a pleasantly scoffing, half- 
envious habit of other women to say to her: 

“Oh, you and your husband are so devoted!” 
And now just this last year, without any warning 
he had, in connection with a Mr. Wynkoop, a 
business friend unknown to her, developed a 
passion for fishing that threatened to push 
her entirely out of his horizon. He had not 
only gone off five times altogether without her 
last summer, but for the last four months he 
had done nothing but talk about his three 
days’ trip in May to a secret trout-stream in 
another state. Mrs. Laurence, true to her 
cult, had spent their evenings at home up in 
the den, while he fingered his beloved fishing 
gear with shining eyes; but even with her 
utmost efforts at sympathetic attention her mind 
was apt to wander dreadfully, so that her 
would-be intelligent comments were strikingly 
the reverse, requiring incredibly patient further 
explanations from her husband — he never 
balked at explaining. She could never re- 
member which kind of rod was used for which 
kind of fish. The only time that he had ever 
really shown annoyance was when she persisted 
in speaking to guests of his sacred four-pound 
trout, stretched out on a board upstairs, as 
“That bass Will was so crazy about catching;” 

[ 159] 


Refractory Husbands 


he seemed to really brood over that, in a way 
that wasn’t like himself. 

Lately he hadn’t even needed her society, 
importing into the den no less a person than 
the village carpenter, a long, lanky, soft-stepped 
man of immense experience in fishing, to whose 
words Will listened as they dropped from his 
lips as if they were pearls, while she practised 
lonesomely on the piano downstairs. The fish- 
ing had also made trouble in her well-ordered 
household last summer, by his bringing home 
live bait and insisting on its being preserved in 
the laundry wash-tubs without reference to the 
exigencies of the family wash; even without that 
grievance the faithful Ellen had complained 
that “all thim little weeny fishes slippin’ round 
that ghostly when she went into the cellar at 
night, took all the stomach from her.” Mrs. 
Laurence felt that she could hardly wait until 
this phase was over, and everything be as it 
always had been before, forgetting that Time 
never goes backward, any more than water runs 
uphill. 

“May I come up?” 

The voice was that of a neighbour, Mrs. 
Stone. Mrs. Stone had a way of following 
her voice at once, without waiting for an answer, 
that was sometimes disconcerting. Mrs. Lau- 
rence gave a wild look around the room as she 

[160] 


Thursday 


hastily snatched up an enshrouding kimono 
that tangled for the moment and wouldn’t 
go on without a struggle, as the figure of the 
visitor appeared on the threshold. Mrs. Stone 
was a large woman of matronly build, dressed 
in a very much starched and shrunken last 
year’s white duck skirt, and a shirt-waist, 
partially covered by a gray ulster buttoned at 
the neck with empty sleeves hanging limply 
down at the sides. She sat down on the nearest 
chair, saying as she did so, with a comprehensive 
glance around the room: 

“You don’t mind me, I hope. Goodness, 
you don’t mean to say you’ve taken off your 
high-necked flannels already /” 

“I never wear them,” said Mrs. Laurence 
hastily. 

“ Oh ! How the dust does show on everything, 
doesn’t it at this time of year? I’ve been 
cleaning all day. That rug by your dressing- 
table hasn’t worn very well, has it? ” 

Mrs. Stone paused momentarily, and then 
went on, this time as one with a purpose: 

“I saw you coming back from town, and I 
thought I’d run over, just for a moment. 
Mrs. Budd and I have been at the Spicers’. 
Poor little Mrs. Spicer is all worked up — you 
know how nervous she is! It’s about your 
Robert. Mrs. Laurence, is his father going to 
let him have a gun for his birthday?” 

[ 161 ] 


Refractory Husbands 

“Why, certainly not,” said Mrs. Laurence, 
with decision. 

Mrs. Stone’s tragic countenance only slightly 
relaxed. 

“Well, Robert has been telling all over the 
neighbourhood — goodness, you used to have 
such an enormous braid! Hair comes out so 
in the spring, doesn’t it? I won’t have a spear 
left soon! Well, Robert is telling all over the 
neighbourhood that he’s to have a gun for 
his birthday; he points sticks now at all the 
children and pretends to pull a trigger, and you 
can see yourself, Mrs. Laurence, what that 
will lead to! Poor little Gladys Spicer nearly 
had a fit the other day because he told her that 
she was dead, and Gladys Spicer’s nurse heard 
him say that next week he was going to shoot 
the grocer’s white horse. Mrs. Laurence, that 
boy ought not to be allowed to have a gun.” 

“He isn’t going'to have one.” Mrs. Laurence’s 
colour rose with her voice, as she strove to hook 
the back of her gown with trembling fingers. 
“If Robert said anything of the kind, he was 
just imagining — playing, as a child will. But, 
of course, if you take everything seriously that 
you hear from that Gladys Spicer and her nurse ! 
Whatever Robert’s other faults may be he is a 
perfectly truthful child!” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Stone, with eyes that 
seemed to take on a blank, veiled expression; 
[162] 


Thursday 


as the mother of four she was perhaps less 
given to a wholesale belief in virtue. She 
politely swerved from the subject as one who 
sees danger below it. “ Was it pleasant in town 
to-day?” 

“Yes, very,” answered Mrs. Laurence, sitting 
down at last in the long draperies of her rose- 
coloured gown to buckle the beaded slippers on 
her pretty feet, with a remorseful effort to 
recover her hospitable spirit. She had that 
kind of lofty, sweet purpose with which one 
may inform one’s life, no matter how small that 
life’s environment; was not one of Raphael’s 
most famous Holy Families painted within 
the limits of a barrel hoop? She was always, 
through all her deeply trivial excitements, 
seeking her rightful connection with high things. 
“I saw such a lovely hat for your Susan in one 
of the shops! I’ll help you make one later, if 
you like. And the most unexpected thing 
happened to me! There, right on the corner 
by the Flatiron Building, I met some people 
from California that I hadn’t seen for six years 
— friends of Mr. Laurence’s — the Von Rosens.” 

“Oh, that German family he lived with 
before he was married?” 

“Yes, the same people. I’ve only met 
them that time before, but of course I’ve 
heard of them so much from William. It was 
impossible to mistake them; the only change 

[ 163 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


I could see was that Mrs. Von Rosen looked 
even fatter and rosier, and the two daughters, 
Amelia and Ida — they pronounce it E- da — are 
thinner and yellower. They are such warm- 
hearted people — I was almost embarrassed, 
right there in the street. Shall we go down- 
stairs now? They are going on to Philadelphia 
this evening, but they promised to stop off 
here to dinner on their way back to town on 
Thursday; they leave for California the next 
day. I knew Will would be so disappointed 
if he didn’t see them.” 

Mrs. Stone stared inexplicably. “Why, I 
thought Mr. Laurence told my husband he was 
going fishing on Thursday? ” 

“He is going in May.” 

“But this is May!” i 

“Yes, of course it is — I’m so absent-minded! 
But it’s next week that he goes fishing.” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Stone. She hastened to 
offer her neighbourly services. “If you’d like 
my recipe for lobster bisque you can have it as 
well as not.” 

It was an understood thing on the Ridge 
that Company from Town had its own laws, 
the neighbourhood delicately effacing itself in 
these occasions without hint of offence, sharing 
indeed opulently in the calculations before- 
hand, and the conversation about it afterward, 
although not bidden to the feast. 

[164] 


Thursday 


The sight of the curly-haired and rosy- 
cheeked Robert, in his brown corduroy knick- 
erbockers, cap in hand, at the foot of the stairs, 
incited to further beneficence. “And why 
don’t you let Robert come over to our house 
to dinner that night? It will be one out of 
the way.” 

“Well, thank you, I’ll see,” said Mrs. Lau- 
rence, tentative response in her voice, before 
turning to her only child. 

“Did you go to the post-office, Robert, as I 
told you? ” 

“Yes.” 

“I saw him there, as I came along,” corrobor- 
ated Mrs. Stone nicely. 

“And did I get any letters?” 

Robert’s dark eyes were fixed on her ear- 
nestly. 

“Did I get any letters , Robert?” 

“No. No, mother. May I go to Herbert’s 
now?” 

“Wash your face and hands before you go.” 
Mrs. Laurence said the last words automatically 
before turning once more to the guest. “Really, 
I think some one ought to complain at Washing- 
ton of the postal service. Just because we 
have nothing but a little branch post-office 
here on the Ridge, half the time we don’t get 
our letters. My sister sent me two last month 
that I never received at all.” 

[i 65] 


Refractory Husbands 


“Yes, it’s dreadful,” agreed Mrs. Stone. 
It was the thing to complain of the postal 
service in the small outlying residential section 
that made the Ridge. “Mrs. Spicer got 
a letter back from the Dead Letter Office 
only this last week. To be sure, it was mis- 
directed, but the principle’s the same. Good- 
ness, here’s Mr. Laurence. I didn’t expect 
to be here when he came home!” She hastily 
gathered her ulster about her. “I see you’ve 
brought home a new landing net. How does 
your wife like your going off fishing so much?” 

“Oh, she’s as interested in it as I am,” re- 
turned Mr. Laurence, mistakenly, taking off 
his hat to the departing guest, before stooping 
over to kiss his wife. He was a tall, dark man of 
whose distinguished appearance she was proud. 

II 

It was not until the evening meal was com- 
fortably under way that Mrs. Laurence artisti- 
cally brought forward the subject of engrossing 
interest. 

“Whom do you think I met in town to-day? 
You’d never guess.” 

“Then you’d better tell me.” 

“Well, it was the Von Rosens — actually, 
the whole three of them! What do you say to 
that?” 


[ 166I 


Thursday 


“Ida must be getting on by this time,” 
said Mr. Laurence with unconscious tact. 

His wife had always suspected Ida of a weak- 
ness for Will in those days when she herself 
had been a stranger to him. 

“Oh, well, I think she looks about the same,” 
said his wife generously. “They overwhelmed 
me with questions about you. I knew you’d be 
heartbroken if you didn’t see them. They go 
to Philadelphia this afternoon! ” — she explained 
their plans at length, as she had to Mrs. Stone 
• — “so they will stop off at the station below, 
on the main road and come out here to dinner.” 

“That will be nice,” said her husband. “What 
night did you say? ” 

“Thursday.” 

“Wh-a-a-t?” 

Mr. Laurence dropped his knife and fork with 
a clatter on his plate, and looked with horrified 
incredulousness at his wife. “Do you mean to 
say you’ve asked them for this Thursday? ” 

Mrs. Laurence’s colour rose. “Don’t be 
so — forcible , Will. Why shouldn’t I ask them 
for Thursday?” 

“Because that’s the day I want to go fishing. 
Great Scott, Nan, I’ve been planning this 
trip ever since Thanksgiving, and you go and 
ask people out to dinner. I can’t understand 
it. Why you should have pitched on that 
night of all others when you knew !” 

[167] 


Refractory Husbands 

Tears of vexation came into Mrs. Laurence’s 
eyes. 

“I don’t see why you speak like that. You’ve 
been talking so long about this old trip that it’s 
no wonder I got mixed up; I thought it was the 
next Thursday, of course.” 

She paused an instant to gather her forces. 
“ Can’t you be here to dinner that night, and 
go on to join the others the next day?” 

“Go on the next day!” Mr. Laurence laughed 
shortly. “Do you realize, Anna, that even 
starting at seven o’clock Thursday evening 
we don’t get to the lodge on the Susquehanna 
until the middle of the next morning? We 
have to stay all night in a little tavern beyond 
Coalberg. We had to write last week to have a 
rig meet us. We’ll only have two days’ fish- 
ing as it is; you know very well that I have 
to get home Sunday night.” 

The mere recounting of the plan served to 
bring back the accustomed tone to his voice. 
“You’ll have to just send word to the Von 
Rosens to come some other time.” 

“But William /” Mrs. Laurence looked out- 
raged now in her turn. “I can’t do that, pos- 
sibly; I told you just now that they’d gone to 
Philadelphia — I don’t know where they’re 
stopping!” 

“Well!” Mr. Laurence shrugged his shoulders. 

[ 168I 


Thursday 


“It’s all your own doing. I certainly have 
given you warning enough. You’ll have to 
make my excuses, and entertain them yourself, 
that’s all.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you will go 
away when the Von Rosens are coming?” 
Mrs. Laurence regarded her husband with 
unfeigned horror. “Why, they’re taking all 
this trouble to see you — they don’t care for 
me! The time I met them we hadn’t a thing 
in common; they bored me to extinction. 
They’re your friends.” She gave a gulp that 
might have been a sob. No one knew how 
heartfully noble it had been of her to behave 
so nicely to them. “And I must say, Will, that 
if you can forget all they did for you — you 
have so often told me that Mrs. Von Rosen 
really saved your life when you were ill out 
there, bringing you broth in the middle of the 

night, [even ” her voice trembled with the 

pathos of the situation. “And Amelia reading 
to you day after day when your eyes gave out — 
if you can’t even give up such a little thing as 
this fishing trip for them now ” 

Such a little thing as the fishing trip ! 

The two sat there on opposite sides of the 
table, lightened by its yellow daffodils. Before 
Mr. Laurence’s vision came the irresponsible, 
free, jolly companionship of the train journey, 
when one began insensibly to leave all burdens 
[ 169] 


Refractory Husbands 


behind; the smell of the wood smoke in the 
hospitable, far tavern of the night; the mighty 
breakfast eaten at dawn; the drive through the 
pine-scented woods to a certain joy; he saw 
the tall, lush grass on either side of the narrow 
brown stream, with bare and nodding boughs 
interlaced slenderly above, through the deli- 
cious tracery of which arched a delicately blue, 
white-clouded sky. He felt the brain-soothing 
peace that came with the sounding swirl and 
rush of that white-foamed, cascading brook; 
the exhilaration of that needed rest; that inde- 
scribable moment when the leaping trout sent 
a quiver down the length of the rod, creating a 
man over again in an Eden that was even more 
perfect than the first Eden because he didn’t 
need any Eve. It was all so vivid to Will 
Laurence that he couldn’t believe that his 
wife didn’t see it, too. The very vision calmed. 

“If you can’t send them word not to come — 
I suppose you can’t, though I confess I don’t 
understand how you came to get yourself in 
such a box, Nan — have a good dinner, anyway; 
Mother Von Rosen knows one when she sees it.” 

“ Of course I’ll have a good dinner; you needn’t 
tell me that,” said his wife, with a feeling 
of immense relief. She had known that he 
would have to give up the trip when he stopped 
to think. With unusual tact for a woman 
who has gained her point she forbore to press 
[ 170] 


Thursday 


it further home. But as they left the table she 
asked : 

“Why don’t you ever take me fishing with 
you? I met a woman the other day who said 
that she always went with her husband.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t like it,” said her husband 
with his hand on her arm. “It wouldn’t do 
for you at all.” 

“Why not?” 

He gave the arm a tender pressure. 

“Too snaky.” 

/‘Oh!” said Mrs. Laurence with an instinc- 
tive shudder, and a horrible sense of dreadful 
slithering things slipping around her William’s 
legs. She was glad that she would escape the 
thought of it this week, at any rate. 

They had an engagement in town the next 
evening, which was Saturday, and company all 
day Sunday. When the company had de- 
parted Robert had still to be read to exhaustively 
before going to bed, a Sunday night office that 
had lately torn Mrs. Laurence asunder in the 
performance, her husband going over to con- 
sult Mr. Stone who had once fished in some 
prehistoric period, and not coming back until 
she was ready for bed herself. To-night, 
Robert, angelic-eyed and flushed on his white 
pillow, kept her by his bedside at least half an 
hour longer, consulting her on matters of the 
soul, such as if it was always right if you told 

[ 171 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


the Exact Truth; which only, after all, led up 
to an ungranted request not to be sent to the 
post-office any more in the afternoons, for the 
absurd reason that he didn’t like to go in the 
doorway; she was obliged to define at length 
what a Duty was. 

But to-night Will didn’t go out; he was still 
in his own room when she reached it. 

“Come in,” he said hospitably, clearing a 
place for her on the lounge, as she trailed, in 
her pretty blue gown — Mrs. Laurence liked 
pretty clothes — through the disorder. “I’m 
just trying to think what I’ll take.” He in- 
dicated an immense pile on the floor beside an 
open suitcase. “Shoes take up the most room, 
of course, and those boots. Last year I stuffed 
some things in the bait-pail, but I’m not going 
to take the bait-pail. One thing I’m going to 

decide right now ” he spoke with sudden 

forcefulness, stalked forward and abstracted 
a pair of trousers from the pile, and sent them 
flying across the room. “I’ve always taken 
two pairs and I’ve never needed more than 
one. I’ve settled that question now and forever. 
What’s the matter, Nan?” 

Mrs. Laurence sat gazing up at him with 
startled eyes. “What are you making all these 
arrangements now for?” 

“For Thursday, of course.” 

“But you’re not going!” 

[ 172] 


Thursday 

“Not going? What do you mean? Of course 
I’m going!” 

“ But I understood ” Mrs. Laurence felt 

her lips trembling beyond her control. “You 
told me you would stay home on account of the 
Von Rosens.” 

“You bet your life I didn’t,” said Mr. Lau- 
rence, emphatically, roused to an unusual effort 
of slang. “Why, you’re losing your mind, 
Nan; I say a thing like that? I never considered 
it for a moment!” 

“You told me to have a good dinner.” 

“Of course I did — that’s all right. I’m 
fond of old Mother Von Rosen. It’s too bad; 
I’d like to see her, of course, if it were any 
other time; but as for saying I’d stay home, 
after all the arrangements I’ve made with 
Wynkoop — no, not for the Queen of Sheba!” 

“Will!” said Mrs. Laurence. Her voice 
rose tragically. “Then all I can say is, that 
if your love for sport makes you so ungrateful, 
if it blots out everything but the little, narrow, 
inch-wide way of your own pleasure, so that 
you can’t even give it up to see friends whom you 
profess to love, to whom you own yourself 
deeply indebted, and whom you may never 
see again in this world — if it makes you not 
even care for what is right — then I think 
fishing is a wicked thing!” 

“All right, then it is,” said her husband, 

[ 173 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


with cold gaiety. Tm a thief and a murderer. 
Will you just move your foot for a moment? 
There's a reel down on the floor there. It’s a 
new one.” His voice insensibly softened; he 
smiled down at her. ‘‘Would you like to see 
how it works?” 

“Thank you, no,” said Mrs. Laurence politely. 
She went downstairs and played Handel’s Largo 
on the piano, under the rose-coloured lamp, 
amidst the pretty artistic furnishings of the 
room, with great care and deep expression, 
that she might feel how calm she was. But 
if he hadn’t given up, she hadn’t, either. It 
seemed to be the deadlock that she had felt 
imminent for so long. She knew, as every 
loved wife knows, that she could win if she 
descended to certain measures; if she cried all 
the time, for instance, so that she threatened to 
make herself ill — but to that she couldn’t 
descend. She could not win by an appeal 
to the senses; she couldn’t wheedle, she couldn’t 
coax — as some women might and whose 
profitable lightness she almost envied. When 
it came to a question of right there was a 
certain sweet and truthful earnestness in her, 
that connection with something high, which 
wouldn’t let the appeal to it rest on anything 
lower. She had a standard, and he loved her 
for it. She tried to see his point of view — 
almost saw it, before it slipped predestinedly 

[ 174] 


Thursday 


away. Then she couldn’t stay downstairs any 
longer, she must go up where he was; perhaps 
he had been thinking over what she had said. 

As she reentered the room, he looked up 
from the tackle-box to say: 

“ Cheer up, Nan, it’ll be all right; they won’t 
come.” 

“Why do you think that?” She had a 
momentary gleam of hope. 

“Oh, just on general principles,” he answered 
carelessly. There were some things which 
even after their closest communion of soul he 
had never told his wife; had never even thought 
of telling her. 

He had lent poor old Mother Von Rosen a 
rather large sum of money years ago, which 
she had never been able to repay; on that 
last visit, six years ago, she had agonized over 
it when alone with him, though he had told her 
he didn’t care if it was never paid. She mightn’t 
look on this visit as lightsomely as Nan sup- 
posed. 

“It’s all very well to talk that way, but 
they are coming ; they would have sent 
word at once if they hadn’t been.” Her voice 
was very gentle, but clear, as if she were speak- 
ing to Robert. “Will, if you knew what it 
means to me to have you go on this fishing trip 
now — it isn’t your going, it’s what it means. 
Dear, I’ve stopped being provoked and silly, 

[ 17s] 


Refractory Husbands 


it’s just your own good I’m thinking of — 
it’s the way I’ve seen other men deteriorate, 
the way I thought you never could. I’d be a 
poor kind of a wife if I couldn’t help you to 
keep to your highest self — if I shrank from 
telling you what was the truth.” 

“See here, Nan. Do you actually mean to 
say that you want me to stay home?” asked Mr. 
Laurence. His voice was amazed, incredu- 
lous, as if he heard her stupendous words for the 
first time. “For, of course, you know if you 
say the word, I won’t go.” His outraged eyes 
fixed hers, his lips pressed together, the lower 
one protruding slightly over the other; his 
unbending figure remained as much a thing 
apart from her as if her arms were not around 
him. Twelve years of intimate married life 
hadn’t done away with a certain subtle strange- 
ness in it; his wife had at times an unexplained 
awe of him as a man — perhaps he had it 
also in his turn at times toward some phases of 
her womanhood. 

The moment for which she had hoped and 
striven had actually come like a stroke of 
lightning from heaven, but she could no more 
take advantage of that moment now than she 
could have raised herself through the ceiling 
— it was an effort out of nature. She tem- 
porized instead with angry weakness. 

“Why should you throw all the responsibility 

[ 176] 


Thursday 


on me? You know perfectly well yourself 
what you ought to do.” 

“All right then, we’ll let — the — subject 
— drop” said Mr. Laurence. 

“And you’re going?” 


Ill 

Those ensuing three days were the dreariest 
of her life; not even when Robert had the 
diphtheria had she been so mentally distraught. 
There was no relief for the sickness of her soul. 
She couldn’t forgive Will for going, and if 
he had stayed he couldn’t have forgiven her. 
Anyway, she would have had to lose. That 
was what it was to be a woman — you always, 
always had to give up! A man gave you 
what he wanted you to have, but if there was 
something you wanted and he didn’t under- 
stand the need, you had to go without. And 
if Will even now had only shown her the little 
loving attentions that he had often shown 
her before — brought her flowers or sweets — 
but he only brought home more fishing-tackle. 
He wasn’t doing anything to make up to her 
for this, precisely because he would never 
realize that there was anything to make up to 
her for. He was obsessed by this mania for 
fishing! She could call it nothing else. He 
was as amiable, as courteous, as affectionate as 

[ 177] 


Refractory Husbands 


ever, but as one listening to the Higher Call 
beyond, and all aglow with it. All he wanted 
to do was to go fishing! 

She waited until the day beforehand to make 
out languidly her menu for the loathed dinner; 
her mind's eye pictured her surrounded by 
kind, tiresome Von Rosens, supporting their 
astonished, hurt disappointment; lamely lying 
out of the affair, telling them how much Will 
wanted to stay home and see them, but being 
bound by his word — etc., etc. The mere 
thought of that dinner alone with them made 
her feel frantic. She morbidly dreaded meeting 
Mrs. Stone when she went to market, to be 
revealed to the pitying neighbourhood afterward 
in her character as a repudiated wife. 

Beside the larger stress was the minor one of 
a daily tussle with her son about changing 
those brown corduroy knickerbockers in which 
he seemed to want to live; he always forgot in 
the morning to put on the blue ones hung over 
night by the side of his bed. She was already, 
in Robert, experiencing the difficulty of mak- 
ing anything masculine do what he didn’t 
want to do; Wednesday, she had sent him 
upstairs from the lunch table to change, 
and then come back and show her he had 
changed. And late in the afternoon, going 
into his room, she spied the discarded garments 
on the closet floor; as she picked them up a 

[178] 


Thursday 


stream of white envelopes slid from the pockets 
before her horrified eyes — wedding invitations, 
bills, a letter from her sister, three from friends, 
four small invitations, a letter in a German hand- 
writing — Mrs. Laurence’s fingers eagerly tore 
it open. 

It had been written, of course, the very day 
that she had met the Von Rosens; they had 
decided to go home without coming back to 
New York at all. 

They were not coming — they had never 
been coming! The whole pulling contention 
of this bitter week might have been avoided; 
that was her first fierce thought; but it was too 
late to alter the situation now — the moral 
aspect remained unchanged. Yet in that un- 
reasonable way in which the material affects 
the spiritual, she felt a little more lenient to- 
ward her husband because she was not to suffer 
this last unbearable thorn-pricking, though it 
was by no doing of his. When she told Will 
that night he acquiesced brightly. 

“Is that so? I never supposed they’d really 
come.” 

“I don’t see how you could possibly suppose 
that.” She felt herself drearily in the aggressive 
again, at once. “ Where are you going? ” 

“I’m going up to settle things with Robert.” 

“Will — Will!” her agonized voice halted 
him. “I’ve been talking to him. He didn’t 

[ 179] 


Refractory Husbands 


tell me a lie — truly ! I have such an absurd 
way of speaking. It appears that I always 
said: ‘Did I get any letters to-day?’ Of 
course I didn’t get them. If I had asked him, 
‘Have you any letters for me?’ he would have 
handed them over at once. It was a sort of a 
game with the child; one understands so little 
what is in a child’s mind! I blame myself for 
persisting in sending him to the post-office 
when he particularly asked me not to. Will ! ” 

“He’ll get your letters all right while I’m 
gone/’ said Mr. Laurence on his return from the 
upper regions. “The little rascal! ” His tone 
had a satisfied affection in it. “No; you’re not 
to go up.” 

His wife hid her face in his shoulder; she 
felt that she desperately needed a little comfort. 
After a few moments she murmured in a voice 
which she tried hard to steady: 

“Do you suppose we can read a little together 
this evening — as long as you are going away 
to-morrow?” 

“Why, I’d like to, dear, but I’m afraid I can’t 
to-night,” said her husband kindly. “I’ve 
got to go out and grub for worms — Wendell’s 
coming up to help me, and Stone says he’ll 
go with us and carry the lantern. Worms seem 
uncommonly hard to find out here. We 
never sent any word to Higgins to have some 
t 180] 


Thursday 


for us. I’ll ask Ellen for an old tomato can. 
You look tired; why don’t you go to bed? 
I’ve got to get my things together afterward; 
I’ll be puttering around till all hours.” 

“Oh, of course you will!” said his wife 
below her breath. What difference did it 
make whether the Von Rosens came or not, 
except that she was free of that unbearable 
sting of their entertainment? Their not coming 
hadn’t altered the larger issue which they had 
set in motion . She and her husband had nothing 
in common any more, that was certain. She 
might as well be on the other side of the world. 
He didn’t even know that she gave him short 
answers that fateful Thursday morning at 
breakfast. There was a whole day’s hard 
work — he was a busy lawyer * — before that 
seven-o’clock train at night with Wynkoop; 
a whole day’s work before the glory of 
that dearly prized, transcendent holiday could 
begin, but the absorption of it was already in 
his eyes, in his voice, in every gesture. 

Even as he kissed her good-bye in the hall, 
his hands were clapping his pockets to make 
sure certain treasures were in them, before 
putting on his hat and adequately snatching 
up the enormous pack, the landing-net, the 
rods, the camera, and that iron-weighted suit- 
case. 

Then as he went striding down the walk, with 
[181] 


Refractory Husbands 


the free motion of one whose mind and muscles 
are lightly attune, while she held the door open 
gazing after him, the thing happened which she 
was always wishing might happen and which 
never did; he turned and took a couple of steps 
backward toward her to speak to her again. 
He called out: 

“I’ll bring you back all the trout you want!” 
in the tone of one pouring crown jewels at her 
feet. His dear, happy smile of unquenchable 
belief in her oneness with him was like a flashing 
accolade that touched her for an ennobling 
instant as she rose to the occasion. 

“If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you!” 
she called back, with full-toned, glad high- 
heartedness. 

She couldn’t have done it if the Von Rosens 
had been coming! 

When he was no longer in sight she went 
into the house again and sat down on the 
sofa, trembling a little, with a vista opening 
before her down which she could see but dimly 
as yet. 

Perhaps — perhaps, in that sweet confusion 
of thoughts and feelings that seemed to have 
unbidden possession of her, she saw herself 
still, in some new way, the Dispenser of 
Delights; perhaps — she didn’t know — it 
mightn’t be a deadlock after all! 

[ 182 ] 


Bunny’s Bag 





Bunny’s Bag 

TfiTT WAS the fifteenth of May. The large 
jj calendar with the enormous black numbers 
*** that hung opposite Mr. Ridgely Fergu- 
son’s desk announced the fact persistently when- 
ever he raised his brown nervous eyes. Years 
after, when the fifteenth of May was mentioned, 
it brought back a vague, haunting sense that 
something of import, long since forgotten, had 
happened on that date; as the grief-stricken one 
in Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s poem, leaning 
forward with his hand on his knees, looking 
vacantly down into the weeds and grasses, 
remembered clearly afterward not what had 
driven him there, but only that “the wood- 
spurge” had a “cup of three.” 

Apart from looking at the calendar, Mr. 
Ferguson was staying home ostensibly to 
write a popular financial article — which in- 
cidentally refused to write itself — to be de- 
livered to the magazine on Monday. It was 
Saturday — a half-holiday by rights — and 
his wife, who had an appointment with her 
sister in town directly after lunch, warmly 

[185] 


Refractory Husbands 


deplored the necessity of leaving the house when 
he was unaccustomedly in it. 

“But you’ll have a better chance to write 
when I’m out of the way!” she proclaimed. 
“Everything will be quiet this afternoon, and 
you’ll have nothing to disturb you.” 

He had acquiesced, with a sneaking feeling 
of anticipatory relief in the possession of a 
perfectly clear field, the house all to himself, 
with none to ask him why or wherefore; with 
no sense of Bunny’s pervading presence — 
neither the sound of her light footsteps nor her 
voice, as she went restlessly in and out of other 
rooms, nor her head poking in at the door 
to see how far he’d got, to disturb him even 
momentarily, nor — what went deeper! — that 
sense of the critical frame of her mind where he 
was concerned. 

Yet, what is there in an empty house with all 
hindrances to work removed that so often 
militates against it? Why is it that when one 
stands no chance of interruption, ideas halt 
and stumble against some unseen barrier? There 
is a vacuum where before was fulness, a ghostly 
sense of strangeness in which the spirit has to 
strive to regain its natural bearings — a chill 
pressure is laid upon the working muscles that 
numbs it. Far off in the kitchen Ridgely could 
hear the clatter of dishes, or the dull shaking 
down of the kitchen range — alien sounds that 
[ 1 86 ] 


Bunny’s Bag 


were usually veiled from his perception. The 
grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly as in 
an empty vault; the strike was out of order, 
because he never could take the time to fix it. 
He had an almost irresistible desire to put down 
his urgent work and take time to fix it now. 
He might even have insanely done so if it hadn’t 
occurred to him that he had forgotten to bring 
out the new weight for which Bunny had been 
asking him for the last two weeks. 

Writing his financial article seemed on the 
face of it to be an easy task; his facts were 
ready to hand, cut from newspapers or noted 
down from other sources. The Express Com- 
panies, the Tariff, the Trusts, the High Cost 
of Living, were all represented — he had tabu- 
lated, figured, compared. The only difficulty 
lay in the proper handling of the subject; it had 
to catch the popular, untechnical reader; it 
all depended on getting the right keynote. 
He had already written and rejected seven 
opening paragraphs. 

A yellow envelope on the mantelpiece to 
one side of the black-numbered calendar caught 
his roving eye: Nelly had brought it when the 
postman made his last round. He knew it as 
a bill from the plumber, which had no reason 
for being there, or for the “Please Remit,” 
that, he felt by instinct, adorned one corner of 
it; he had had its double in his pocket since 

[187] 


Refractory Husbands 

last month, and had promised his wife faithfully 
to write out an immediate check for it from the 
balance which she knew to be in the bank. 
Somehow, when he got so far as putting a bill 
in his pocket he felt as if it were paid. He 
got up now, took the duplicate, tore it in small 
pieces with his long, nervous fingers, and dropped 
them in the waste-basket. There was no need 
of Bunny’s seeing it when she came in. 

On the brink of grappling with the financial 
article his mind wandered idly picking up 
foolish straws, such as “Seed-time and bill- 
time shall not fail”; he imagined the consterna- 
tion in different households if all such missives 
were put in the hand of a special messenger 
with a whistle, to be called the Bill Whistler; 
what awful revelations would be made. He would 
send the check for this bill that very afternoon; 
he only hoped he wouldn’t tell Bunny about 
his forgetfulness — he had an absurd habit 
of confession; he couldn’t help telling her things 
even when he had firmly resolved not to. 

He looked meditatively now at the faded, 
silver-framed photograph of her that had stood 
for eight years in the corner of his desk — a 
childish-faced Bunny, with a rose in her hair. 
She had a different expression now. 

“There’s some one at the telephone for you, 
sir.” 

Ridgely arose with a start and made his way 

[188I 


Bunny’s Bag 

to the landing. It was his wife’s voice at the 
other end of the wire. 

“Ridgely, is that you, dearest?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Well, I want to tell you that we have just 
had the most delightful invitation for to-night. 
Sue and Joe are to take us with them to dinner 
at the Pallisers’ — the Hawley Pallisers’ — he’s 
the artist, you know; they are the ones who have 
the gorgeous Italian studio, and are so charming. 
Do you understand me, dearest? ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“I thought if you could take the six o’clock 
train — that ought to give you time to finish 
your article first. Besides, if you haven’t 
finished it, you’ll need a rest and a change then, 
anyway. The Pallisers are going to Europe 
next week, and we’ll never get such an invita- 
tion again. I’m just crazy about it! And, 
dearest ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“I want you to bring in a bag with my things. 
Nelly can get them together. You’d better 
get a pencil and paper and write them down. 
Have you got it there? Well, all right, dearest. 
Now listen: 

“My evening gown.” 

“Your evening gown — which one?” 

“Ridgely Ferguson, I’ve had the same evening 
gown for two years. The white silk, the only 
[ 189 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


one I possess. It’s hanging up in my closet 
— Nelly knows. And my white silk stockings 
and white slippers. Tell Nelly to clean them 
with gasoline if they need it, and put them in 
the sun so they won’t smell; and my long white 
gloves, the best pair; she’d better clean them, too; 
they are in my second drawer; or they may be 
rolled up in my silver scarf — I want that, 
too — in the blue window-box in my room. 
And I want my white bandeau for my hair; 
it has pink rosebuds on it — Nelly knows where 
it is. Have you written all that down, dear?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Tell her to get the tan-leather suit-case 
from the tank room. Oh! — and I want my 
little pearl pendant, it’s in the green case in my 
top drawer — the chain is in the jewel-box. 
Oh! — and my messaline under slip. Tell Nelly 
not to forget that when she gets the dress. 
I think that’s all. Did I say the slippers, 
dearest?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Perhaps you’d better read the list over, 
dearest.” 

“Yes, dear. White silk gown in closet. 
White silk stockings. White slippers to be 
cleaned. White gloves, ditto. Silver scarf in 
blue window-box. White bandeau with rosebuds 
for hair. Pearl pendant. Chain. White mes- 
saline slip.” 


[ 190] 


Bunny’s Bag 

“Yes, that sounds all right — and oh, dear- 
est ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Be sure and don’t forget a thing. Oh, and 
you’d better bring my tube of cold cream and the 
little silver shoe-horn on the dressing-table. 
Sue never keeps anything where you can find it, 
since the baby came. And dearest — there’s 
a couple of yards of white baby ribbon in my 
work-basket or somewhere, if Nelly can find 
it — you won't forget anything this time, will 
you, dearest?” 

“No, dear.” 

“Dinner’s at seven-thirty. You’ll have to 
get dressed yourself, don’t forget that. Come 
straight up to Sue’s as quick as you can with 
my things. Tell Nelly not to light the lamps, 
and to turn down the gas in the hall. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye, dear.” 

Ridgely hung up the receiver and went back 
to his room. As he sat down to his work once 
more he had a paralyzing sensation of being 
physically and mentally exhausted. He took 
up the pen: his brains felt as if they had been 
scattered in a dozen different directions, and 
could never come together again to a focussing 
point. 

“Please, sir — ” it was Nelly’s voice again 
as before. “Some one’s at the telephone for 
you, sir.” 


[ 191 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


Ridgely laid down his pen with an exclamation 
and stepped down to the landing once more. 
It was his wife’s voice, as he knew it would be. 

“Is that you, dearest?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“I just want to say that I hope you don’t 
mind coming this way. If it were any ordi- 
nary invitation, I would have refused; but 
one like this, so important — you sounded 
some way as if — Sue is paying for these calls, 
dearest.” 

“No, I don’t mind — it’s all right. But 
I’ll have to get back to work now, if ” 

“And you won't forget?” 

“No. Good-bye!” 

As he started back to his desk it suddenly 
struck him with a spasm of fear that he almost 
had forgotten. Nelly must be called at once 
and started on her quest. She listened, with 
her head on one side, as he read over the list 
aloud impressively; her running comments 
showed a reassuring intelligence that took the 
whole burden from him. 

“Ah, yes, ’tis in her lower drawer. The 
blue window-seat — ah, yes. I’ll find the 
gloves whichever place they are. Ah, yes, 
’tis cleaned they have to be. If you’ll give me 
the paper, sir — ’twill be all right. I’ll have 
them in the big dress suitcase when you’re 
ready for them.” 

[ 192] 


Bunny’s Bag 


It was already three o’clock. The indefinite 
spaciousness of the afternoon in which any large 
work might be accomplished had contracted 
to a meagre complement of two hours and a 
half — two hours and a quarter, for he must 
begin to dress and shave not later than five- 
fifteen. 

He marshalled his slips and notes before him 
and strove with knitted brows to decide at 
just what point he should begin. The first 
sentence must catch the eye and pique the 
attention, while yet being the exact beginning 
from which the sequence would naturally flow. 
It gave an arresting shock to realize how nearly 
he had forgotten to speak to Nelly about Bunny’s 
things! He might have exerted himself to 
throw a little more warmth into his tone when 
he said he didn’t mind coming in — though 
it was taking time from his work. 

It was just that lack of enthusiasm that Bunny 
had missed in his tone the first time and that 
she longed to call forth in him. That was the 
trouble — she weighed every tone, every gesture; 
she was always missing something in him and 
showing that she did. 

A strong smell of gasoline assailed him — 
evidently Nelly, good girl, was following out 
instructions. The defective clock in the hall 
suddenly struck thirteen — an unnatural hour. 
By looking at his watch he found that thirty 

[ 193 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


minutes had gone from his afternoon. He went 
in the other room and deliberately laid out his 
togs, even his necktie, so that if he ever got 
started on his theme he needn’t stop until the 
last possible minute. 

He shaved, put on his dressing-gown, came 
back to his desk; it was five minutes of 
four. The sense of the shortness of the time 
left seemed to give a click to the close-locked 
mechanism of his brain; he seized the pen 
masterfully and wrote without hesitation his 
illuminating opening sentence: 

“The late Commodore Vanderbilt was once 
heard to say ” 

The handling of the whole thing suddenly 
became plain before him; the newspaper clip- 
pings and financial tables and jottings fell into 
place like the blocks from a magic wand; 
his pen went like a race-horse. His face grew 
flushed as he wrote and wrote, faster and faster, 
with higher concentration each moment. A dark- 
ening shadow across his paper made him sud- 
denly look up at last and glance at his watch. 
Immersed as he had been in his work, the 
sixth sense of a commuter as to trains had not 
left him. 

Twenty minutes to six. He scratched another 
sentence, flung down the pen impatiently and 
dashed for his clothes, blessing himself for having 
laid them out. 


[ 194] 


Bunny’s Bag 


“ Nelly! Nelly!” he shouted, as he tugged 
on his waistcoat, “is that bag ready?” 

“I’m just after closing it, sir,” said the maid. 

“You’re sure everything is there? ” 

“Ah, yes, sir, everything.” 

“All right, give it to me, then.” 

He finished his hurried toilet subconsciously, 
his mind still immersed in pregnant sentences, 
caught up the bag, ran downstairs with it and 
deposited it by the front door while he put on 
his overcoat and hat, ran back upstairs swiftly 
to get his commutation and money — not very 
much of the latter — from the pocket of his 
everyday suit, and was off at last. 

It was time. He swung complacently on to the 
just departing train with that pioneering prehen- 
sile leg-movement which bespeaks long practice. 

There were not many people in the car at 
that time of day. Ridgely sat abstractedly, 
gazing straight before him, with brows knit, 
his lips occasionally moving with the reflex 
action of the paragraphs pounded out by his 
still-working brain. That was a good article, 
if he knew one; it could be read with interest 
by people who knew nothing technically of the 
subject as well as by those who did. It was 
by such handling of facts as this that men suited 
the popular taste, and to suit the popular taste 
meant money and perhaps fame. He might come 
to be an authority on certain subjects. 

[ 195 1 


Refractory Husbands 


Ridgely turned suddenly and looked out of 
the window idly as the train made its only 
stop; it was an express from here on. He 
felt his half-arrested attention to have some 
hazy yet peculiar significance in it that seemed 
striving to reach his consciousness. Several 
people got on, but he certainly knew none of 
them — - a gaunt, low-collared, long-throated, 
gum-chewing lad, a large woman with a little 
boy, and a pretty girl with a bag. 

A bag! Ridgely leaned swiftly forward and 
groped beside him in the place where the tan- 
leather dress-suitcase should have been. It 
was not there — it never had been there, 
he had left it inside of the front door of his 
own house when he had dashed out of it! 

He sat, still gropingly leaning forward, struck 
to stone, as the full horror of his loss broke 
over him. 

The next instant he had grasped a time-card 
from his pocket and was wildly burrowing down 
into the figures, trying to extract a return train 
at the moment of his arrival in the big station, 
and another with which it might connect at home 
in time to get the bag after all. 

As he knew before he looked, the outgoing 
train left five minutes before his rolled in, 
and the next would make eight-ten the earliest 
hour at which he could catch one back to town. 
It was as impossible now to get the bag to Bunny 

[ 196] 


Bunny’s Bag 


in time for that dinner as to bring to life a man 
he might have murdered; there was an appalling, 
sheer finality about the frustrative quality of 
such a grotesquely small amount of time and 
space — so few miles to go, so few minutes 
lacking for accomplishment, and the bag utterly 
beyond reach. 

It was the worst thing, short of death or 
disgrace, that could have happened; one thought 
stared him in the face: What would Bunny 
look like when she saw that he hadn't brought the 
bag? 

The thought was such a baleful one that he 
leaned back with his eyes closed, to see it more 
clearly with his inner mind. If he could have 
had a moment’s hope that even after the first 
shock she might condone his oversight! But 
there could be no such prospect. There had 
been times — times, as he allowed, much too 
many! — when he had too delusively enter- 
tained such a hope. Bunny never condoned 
anything he did; her clear sight of the reasons 
for any remissness on his part, and her irritated 
impatience at his omissions, grew with their 
recurrence. 

He had no excuse to offer for having forgotten 
the bag, whose safe transmission meant so much 
to her, beyond the usual one of having been 
thinking of something else. 

“Oh, you are always thinking of something 

[ 197] 


Refractory Husbands 

else,” she would reply in that tone that he knew 
so well. “ I cannot understand how you ” 

That was the way it always began. She 
would flare out, control herself with an effort, 
listen to his halting excuses, bitterly smiling, 
drive home a truth or two stingingly, thresh the 
whole matter out — heavens, at what length! — 
and finally, as one beaten to cover by circum- 
stances too much for her, come to him, the 
angry, helpless tears still in her eyes, to be con- 
soled by his caresses as the only thing left for 
her. 

He knew, with a twinge, what this going to 
the Pallisers , meant to Bunny. She was always 
deeply susceptible to the joy of the Surprise. 
This stepping unexpectedly out of the rut of 
daily life into another world, virtually, at the 
PalHsers’ Italian studio, would have given her 

the keenest pleasure. Well ! This time 

she couldn’t have the pleasure, that was all 
there was to it! And he had to meet her and 
tell her so; there was no help for that. 

It wasn’t only his larger faults that she 
minded, faults for which, when you came down 
to it, she had some reason to hold him to ac- 
count. He had been conscious for this last year, 
especially, that her critical faculty where he was 
concerned had taken more and more possession 
of her. She was a woman who tried to live 
up to her own generous standard; she exacted 
[ 198] 


Bunny’s Bag 


much from herself in the household, his home 
was well kept, his comfort considered and 
planned for unvaryingly. 

But she noticed everything he did; if he pulled 
down a window-shade, she rose the moment after 
and pulled it a fraction higher or lower; if he 
laid a book inconsequently on the table, she 
immediately took it up and put it in the right 
place; if he poured a glass of water for himself, 
she instantly wiped up the few drops that 
he had spilled on the table. His necktie was never 
the right one to wear with that suit, and the 
suit itself the one that should have been sent 
to be pressed. 

He either shut the door so hard that it made 
her jump or he didn’t shut it at all. He forgot 
continually when he should have remembered, 
and remembered when he should have known 
that the conditions were changed. Bunny was 
not ill-tempered in this attitude of hers; she 
might even laugh as she chided, though with an 
inner note of earnestness that took all mirth 
out of the laughter — but his most trivial action 
was subjected to an adverse scrutiny that saw 
the flaw before it saw anything else — or saw 
nothing else. 

Love cannot live in the chill atmosphere of 
continual criticism. Where the atmosphere is 
primarily of love, warm-enfolding, all-encourag- 
ing love, criticism may take its rightful, helpful 

[ 199] 


Refractory Husbands 


place among a hundred other forces, but it is 
a blighting, killing thing where it has the main 
prominence. 

Ridgely had what he felt sometimes to be a 
foolish, boyish habit of confessing small mis- 
deeds to his wife when she needn’t have known 
them otherwise: when he forgot to post 
her letters, or made a mistake in an order to be 
delivered, or got something wrong that for a 
wonder she had taken for granted he had got 
right. He would resolve on the way home not 
to tell Bunny a word about it this time; yet 
after all he would find himself owning up lightly 
in a moment of weakness, and getting the storm 
over with at once; it seemed somehow petty, and 
not worthy of him, to keep such things from his 
wife even though he pandered to her critical 
spirit in so doing. 

But perhaps the real reason lay back of this; 
perhaps the real reason — so dimly felt as to be 
unacknowledged — lay in the fact that if he 
recognized the necessity of silence toward her it 
would also be a recognition of that quality in her 
which he was growing to dislike; to dislike a 
quality in a person means usually, after a while, 
to dislike the person. 

A sensation of intense bitterness surged sud- 
denly over Ridgely, an overpowering revolt 
at the conditions of his life. Women take 
tally of their feelings continually, changing the 
[ 200 ] 


Bunny’s Bag 


grades and colouring in the handling. It is 
well that so many of the reluctant perceptions 
of the normal man, unwarped by vice or genius, 
are unacknowledged to himself; for once to 
acknowledge a condition or a feeling makes it 
instantly concrete. 

As Ridgely sat leaning forward, his head in 
his hands, his eyes gleaming with an exhausting 
flame, a long procession of days stretched out 
before him in which, instead of the warming 
and steady glow of the hearthfire, he should 
have the crackling of thorns; instead of bread, 
a stone. Heaven knew, he worked hard enough 
for Bunny to get her what she wanted! 

There was this valise business. He had known 
all the time that he should never have been 
asked to stop his work and bring it in. He 
tried to keep a hold on himself through the 
intense passion that seemed about to rise and 
wreck him. He was sorry that she should be 
disappointed; of course he realized that this 
chance to visit the Pallisers was an unusual 
one that probably wouldn’t occur again; they 
were unusual people much sought after. 

Yes — but suppose Bunny was disappointed, 
what did it all amount to anyway that such 
monstrous prominence should be given it as 
he foresaw would be the case? Her face, when 
her eyes first fell on him without that bag, 
showed itself inexorably before him. He felt 
[201 ] 


Refractory Husbands 

in advance the impatient, dumb writhings of 
spirit to which that exhausting disappointment, 
with all its raking up of past misdeeds, would 
condemn him until he was finally and tearfully 
forgiven, when he no longer cared whether he 
were forgiven or not, except that the air would 
fortunately be breathable once more. 

This, then, was what his married life had 
come to be: a shift, an evasion, an eternal 
struggle to keep up with trivial demands that 
meant nothing, that never should have been 
made! The daily irritation, the continued 
picking at him, the continued lack of sympathy, 
why should he put up with them longer? 

An utterly wild and insane idea took momen- 
tary possession of him. Suppose he cut the scene 
with Bunny altogether; suppose he stepped out 
of this train into one that would carry him far, 
far out West? Yellowstone Park spread out 
before him, all crimson and purple rocks and 
golden-hazed mountains. 

Suppose he took another train and stepped 
into a new life where a man could be a man, 
where there were big things instead of these 
little ones that made this slowly tightening, 
fettering web about his feet? He had always 
loved travel; in his boyhood he had imagined 
himself going through many lands. He mechan- 
ically thrust his hand into his pocket; the action 
brought him back sanely to reality. Besides 
[ 202 ] 


Bunny’s Bag 


his commutation ticket, he had but a dollar 
and fifty cents. What had come over him, 
anyway? 

He rose, as he saw others doing; the train was 
nearing the terminus. There was still that 
tube journey for him afterward ! He remembered 
suddenly, as if it were in the trembling film 
of a moving-picture, an intoxicated man sitting 
with a friend on the opposite side of a midnight 
trolley once in the past; the friend was loudly 
proffering encouragement as to the fitness of 
the tipsy one’s condition, in view of his home- 
coming. The latter, while confidently agreeing, 
stopped every few minutes to lament fearfully: 
“Yes, but what’ll my wife say when she sees 
me?” 

The gray stone of the platform, the darkened 
lines of cars on the tracks, the high iron railing 
separating them from the gray stone space 
outside the waiting-rooms with their swinging 
doors, the broad flight of gray stone steps leading 
upward at the side, showed desolately through 
the electric lights as the small straggling pro- 
cession emerged from the train — passengers 
belonging to no regular hour of travel and with 
no cheerful suggestion of the business world 
about them. 

Hunched ahead of Ridgely in the dreary 
emptiness of the station were two smaller, 
slouch-hatted men carrying bundles. A short, 
[ 203 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


shawled, pyramidal Italian woman followed 
with several children. He hurried past them 
straggling and went down the steps to the 
tunnel automatically, a desultory figure going 
his way as in a dream. He was steeped in a 
monstrous moodiness in which this sickening, 
chafing episode seemed as if it would never 
come to an end and be over instead of always 
in prospect. 

He sat down in the tunnel car with a lurch 
and something hit lightly against his hand; as 
he looked down he saw that a tiny locket which 
he wore on his watch had come open. Within 
was the tiniest curl, the faintest flaxen wisp, 
cut from the head of the baby boy whose brief 
little life had ended seven years before. 

Something blurred Ridgely’s vision. With a 
mighty rush came a torrent of tenderness for 
Bunny — his Bunny — little bride, little wife, 
little mother. Ah, little mother! Could he 
ever forget her face when the baby first lay in 
her arms after that terrible fight for life — could 
he ever forget her face when the boy went from 
them, lying in his arms at the very last, so little 
and so unspeakably dear? The greatness of 
that bond of joy and grief — oh, what, what 
could ever lessen it? How infinitely small 
seemed these selfishnesses and meannesses of 
hers — yes, and his! when one so much as 
touched the healing garment of Love. Poor 
[204] 


Bunny’s Bag 


little Bunny, whoever else meted out stern jus- 
tice to her, not he — never he ! 

He sat up straight now, still looking pierc- 
ingly ahead of him athwart the white-enamelled 
posts of the car into the rock-bound darkness 
outside. There was a new sadness in his eyes, 
a firmer compression of his lips. 

That rush of love and pity still held its place, 
but he knew also inexorably that it would fade, 
as before; no such moment of sentiment could 
keep its living force in the demands of the present. 
One couldn’t live only on the love of the past 
with a living, changing person; one drew one’s 
breath every morning anew to the day and the 
love and the problems of it. He ought to 
try to help Bunny of course; he ought to try to 
remember what she missed. As for what he 
missed — why, he could be strong enough to 
stand it. 

The car came to a stop, and he rose with a sigh. 

“ Yes, but what'll my wife say when she sees me? ” 

There was still the trolley ride to Sue’s 
apartment before this interminable intermezzo 
came to an end. 

But after he had reached the top of the long 
steps that lead up from the tube he saw in 
astonishment a little figure in a blue suit and a 
blue velvet hat with rosebuds on it, just beyond 
the barrier of the ticket-takers — no other than 
Bunny herself! 


[205 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


He braced himself for the fearful moment when 
her gaze would take in the damning fact that 
the precious bag was not with him — yes, she 
saw! but with no change of expression unless 
it were to one of relief. 

“Oh, I’m so, so glad you got my last tele- 
phone,” she said excitedly, as she put out her 
hand to press his arm when he came near her, 
with that slight alteration of colour that always 
showed in her face when she met her husband 
suddenly. She went on talking swiftly: 

“I was so afraid there might be some mistake!, 
Nelly said she knew you must only have stepped 
out for a minute, for the bag was still by the 
hall door while she was talking. It was awfully 
sweet of you to come in this way. I wasn’t 
sure you would care to. Nelly gave you the 
message correctly, I suppose. The baby had 
just broken out with the measles, and of course 
Sue and Joe couldn’t go to the Pallisers’ — that 
threw us out completely, and I was so disap- 
pointed, when I had been expecting such a good 
time! That was why I asked you to come in 
anyway and we’d have a little dinner together 
somewhere — they’re so upset at Sue’s, and we 
had only chops and string beans at home any- 
way! As I telephoned, if you hadn’t got here 
by seven o’clock, I should have taken the next 
train home. But it was awfully nice of you to 
come!* 


[ 206 ] 


Bunny’s Bag 


“ I have only a dollar and fifty cents with me/’ 
said Ridgely warningly. 

“Oh, I have a five-dollar bill. I wouldn’t 
have suggested the dinner if I hadn’t had the 
money. I know you too well for that! You 

never ” she stopped short with an odd effort, 

as if in some way recalling herself from a for- 
bidden path. Her eyes searched his face. 

“Do you know, you looked so strange as 
you came toward me — I noticed it the first 
moment I caught sight of you — as if you had 
been terribly ill,” her voice shook for an instant, 
“and gone to heaven! I know you work too 
hard! It gave me the most awful shock, until 
I saw that your necktie was crtfoked — oh, 
don’t laugh at me! — and that your shoes 
needed a shine.” 

“You deserve to be laughed at,” said Ridgely. 
“I never felt better in my life. I’m going to 
wear my necktie crooked after this, and go 
without shines entirely, if I feel like it — 
you hear?” 

His tone had a fascinating, careless, masculine 
peremptoriness as her eyes helplessly adored 
him, for the moment giving all, asking nothing; 
she had all the charm of the little Bunny he had 
married. 

“Come on, Bun, don’t let’s stand here 
spooning; let’s go and get something to eat.” 

As usual, when one had braced one’s self for 

[207] 


Refractory Husbands 


a mighty effort, the sands of occasion had 
shifted into a new shape that made the effort 
unnecessary. In the utterly unexpected bub- 
bling joyousness of this reprieve, in which his 
spirits rose like a cork, Ridgely yet felt him- 
self in danger of yielding to a grandly careless, 
overpowering impulse to confession that might 
spoil everything now. 

If he could only keep from telling Bunny that 
he had forgotten that bag! 


[ 208 ] 


The Blossoming Rod 










0 


The Blossoming Rod 

fR. LANGSHAW had vaguely felt un- 
usual preparations for a Christmas 
gift to him this year; he was always 
being asked for “change” to pay the children 
for services rendered. 

It might have seemed a pity that calculation 
as to dollars and cents entered so much into 
the Christmas festivities of the family, if it 
were not that it entered so largely into the 
scheme of living that it was naturally inter- 
woven with every dearest hope and fancy; 
the overcoming of its limitations gave a zest 
to life. Langshaw himself, stopping now, as 
was his daily habit, to look at the display made 
by the sporting-goods shop on his way home 
the Friday afternoon before Christmas Monday, 
wondered, as his hand touched the ten-dollar 
bill in his pocket — a debt unexpectedly paid 
him that day — if the time had actually arrived 
at last when he might become the possessor 
of the trout-rod that stood in the corner of the 
window; reduced, as the ticket proclaimed, from 
fifteen dollars to ten. 

[211 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


The inspiration was the more welcome because 
the moment before his mind had been idly yet 
disquietingly filled with the shortcomings of 
George, his eldest child and only son, aged ten, 
who didn’t seem to show that sense of respon- 
sibility which his position and advanced years 
called for — even evading his duties to his 
fond mother when he should be constituting 
himself her protector. He was worried as 
to the way George would turn out when he 
grew up. 

This particular trout-rod, however, had an 
attraction for Langshaw of long standing. He 
had examined it carefully more than once when 
in the shop with his neighbour, Wickersham; 
it wasn’t a fifty-dollar rod, of course, but it 
seemed in some ways as good as if it were — 
it was expensive enough for him! He had 
spoken of it once to his wife, with a craving for 
her usual sympathy, only to meet with a sur- 
prise that seemed carelessly disapproving. 

“Why, you have that old one of your father’s 
and the bass-rod already; I can’t see why you 
should want another. You always say you 
can’t get off to go fishing as it is.” 

He couldn’t explain that to have this partic- 
ular split bamboo would be almost as good as 
going on a fishing trip; with it in his hand he 
could feel himself between green meadows, the 
line swirling down the rushing brook. But 
[212] 


The Blossoming Rod 


later Clytie had gone back to the subject with 
pondering consideration : 

4 ‘Ten dollars seems an awful price for a rod! 
I’m sure I could buy the same thing for much 
less uptown; wouldn’t you like me to see about 
it some day? ” 

“ Great Scott ! Never think of such a thing ! ” 
he had replied in horror. “I could get much 
cheaper ones myself ! If I ever have the money 
I’ll do the buying — you hear?” 

“ Hello, Langshaw! Looking at that 

rod again? Why don’t you blow yourself to a 
Christmas present? Haven’t you got the nerve? ’ ’ 

‘‘That’s what I don’t know ! ” called Langshaw 
with a wave of the hand as Wickersham passed 
by. Yet, even as he spoke he felt he did know — 
his mind was joyously, adventurously made up to 
have “the nerve”; he had a right, for once in 
the twelve years of his married life, to buy him- 
self a Christmas present that he really wanted, 
in distinction to the gift that family affection 
prompted, and held dear as such, but which 
had no relation to his needs or desires. Children 
and friends were provided for; his wife’s winter 
suit — a present by her transforming imagination 
— already in the house; the Christmas turkey 
for the janitor of the children’s school sub- 
scribed to — sometimes he had wished himself 
the janitor! and all the small demands that 
drain the purse at the festal season carefully 

i 213 1 


Refractory Husbands 


counted up and allowed for. There was no 
lien on this unexpected sum just received. 
The reel and the line, and the flies and such, 
would have to wait until another time, to be 
sure; but no one could realize what it would be to 
him to come home and find that blessed rod 
there. He had a wild impulse to go in and buy 
it that moment, but such haste seemed too 
slighting to the dignity of that occasion, which 
should allow the sweets of anticipation — 
though no one knew better than he the danger 
of delay where money was concerned : it melted 
like snow in the pocket. Extra funds always 
seemed to bring an extra demand. 

The last time there was ten dollars to spare 
there had been a letter from Langshaw’s mother, 
saying that his sister Ella, whose husband was 
unfortunately out of a position, had developed 
flat-foot; and a pair of suitable shoes, costing 
nine-fifty, had been prescribed by the physician. 
Was it possible for her dear boy to send the 
money? Ella was so depressed. 

The ten dollars had, of course, gone to Ella. 
Both Langshaw and his wife had an unsym- 
pathetic feeling that if they developed flat-foot 
now they would have to go without appropriate 
shoes. 

“You look quite gay!” said his wife as she 
greeted him on his return, her pretty oval face, 
with its large dark eyes and dark curly locks, 

[214] 


The Blossoming Rod 


held up to be kissed. “Has anything nice 
happened ?” 

“You look gay too!” he evaded laughingly, 
as his arms lingered round her. Clytie was 
always a satisfactory person for a wife. ‘ ‘ What’s 
this pink stuff on your hair — popcorn?” 

“Oh, goodness! Baby has been so bad, she 
has been throwing it round everywhere,” she 
answered, running ahead of him upstairs to a 
room that presented a scene of brilliant disorder. 

On the bed was a large box of tinselled Christ- 
mas-tree decorations and another of pink and 
white popcorn — the flotsam and jetsam of 
which strewed the counterpane and the floor to 
its farthest corners, mingled with scraps of 
glittering paper, an acreage of which surrounded 
a table in the centre of the room that was 
adorned with mucilage pot and scissors. A 
large feathered hat, a blue silk dress, and a 
flowered skirt were on the rug, near which a 
very plump child of three, with straggling yellow 
hair, was trying to get a piece of gilt paper 
off her shoe. She looked up with roguish blue 
eyes to say rapidly: 

“Fardie doesn’t know -what baby goin’ a 
give’m for Kissemus!” 

“Hello! This looks like the real thing,” said 
Langshaw, stepping over the debris; “but what 
are all these clothes on the floor for?” 

“Oh, Mary was dressing up and just dropped 

[215 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


those things when she went to the village with 
Viney, though I called her twice to come back 
and pick them up,” said the mother, sweeping 
the garments out of the way. “It’s so tire- 
some of her! Oh, I know you stand up for 
everything Mary does, Joe Langshaw; but she 
is the hardest child to manage!” 

Her tone insensibly conveyed a pride in the 
difficulty of dealing with her elder daughter, aged 
six. 

“But did you ever see anything like Baby? 
She can keep a secret as well as any one! It 
does look Christmassy, though — doesn’t it? 
Of course all the work of the tree at the mission 
comes on me as usual. The children, with the 
two Wicker sham girls, were helping me until 
they got tired. Why don’t you come and kiss 
father, Baby? She is going to sweep up the 
floor with her little broom so that father will 
give her five cents.” 

“I don’t want to fweep ’e floor!” said the 
child, snapping her blue eyes. 

“She shall get her little broom and fardie will 
help her,” said Langshaw, catching the child 
up in his arms and holding the round little form 
closely to him before putting her down carefully 
on her stubby feet. 

Later, when the game of clearing up was over 
and the nickel clutched in Baby’s fat palm, 
he turned to his wife with a half-frown : 

[216] 


The Blossoming Rod 


“ Don’t you think you are making the children 
rather mercenary, Clyde? They seem to want 
to be paid for everything they do. I’m just 
about drained out of change!” 

“ Oh, at Christmas ! ” said the wife expressively. 

“Well, I hope nobody is going to spend any 
money on me; the only presents I want are 
those you make for me,” said Langshaw warn- 
ingly. He gave the same warning each year, 
undeterred by the nature of the articles pro- 
duced. His last year’s “ Christmas” from Clyde 
had been a pair of diaphanous blue China-silk 
pajamas that were abnormally large in chest 
and sleeves — as for one of giant proportions — 
and correspondingly contracted in the legs, 
owing to her cutting out the tops first and having 
to get the other necessary adjuncts out of the 
scant remainder of the material. “You hear 
me, Clyde? ” 

“Yes, I hear,” returned Clyde in a bored 
tone. 

“Do you know ” Langshaw hesitated, 

a boyish smile overspreading his countenance. 
“I was looking at that trout-rod in Burchell’s 
window to-day. I don’t suppose you remember 
my speaking of it, but I’ve had my eye on it 
for a long time.” He paused, expectant of 
encouraging interest. 

“Oh, have you, dear?” said Clyde absently. 
The room was gradually, under her fingers, 
[217] 


Refractory Husbands 


resuming its normal appearance. She turned 
suddenly with a vividly animated expression. 

“I must tell you that you’re going to get a 
great surprise to-night — it isn’t a Christmas 
present, but it’s something that you’ll like even 
better, I know. It’s about something that 
George has been doing. You’ll never guess what 
it is!” 

“Is that so?” said Langshaw absently in his 
turn. He had a momentary sense of being set 
back in his impulse to confidences that was not, 
after all, untinged with pleasure. His delight- 
ful secret was still his own, unmarred by unre- 
sponsive criticism. “By the way, Clytie, I 
don’t like the way George has been behaving 
lately. He hasn’t shown me his report from 
school in months; whenever I ask him for it he 
has some excuse. Hello! Is that little Mary 
crying?” 

“ I wonder what on earth has happened now ! ” 
exclaimed the mother, rushing from the room to 
return the next instant, pulling after her a red- 
cloaked and red-hatted little girl who sought to 
hide behind her. 

“Well, what do you think she’s done?” 
Clyde’s tone was withering as she haled forth 
the shrinking culprit, her small hands over her 
eyes. “She lost her purse with the dollar she 
had saved up for your Christmas present — 
lost the money for dear father’s present; and 
[218] 


The Blossoming Rod r 


all because she took it with her to buy a five- 
cent pencil — a green pencil with purple glass 
in the end of it; to buy something for herself 
before Christmas!” Clytie paused tragically. 
“Of course, if she hadn’t taken her money out 
to spend it on herself she wouldn’t have lost it!” 

“I don’t care!” burst out the culprit, her big, 
dark eyes, just like her mother’s, flashing from 
under her brown curls, and her red lips set 
defiantly. “It was my own money, anyhow, if 
I did lose it. I earned it all myself. It wasn’t 
yours!” 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” interposed the father in 
gentle reproof. “Little girls mustn’t talk like 
that to dear mother. Come, get up here on 
father’s knee — so.” He took off the red cap, 
tucked the brown curly head in the bend of his 
arm, his chin resting on the top of it as he went 
on, with the child’s small hands clutching at his. 
“Mary must always do what mother says; but, 
so far as this money is concerned, you can 
make me something that I would like far better 
than anything you could buy. Why don’t 
you make me another pincushion, for instance? 
The one you gave me last year is quite worn out.” 

“A pink one?” asked Mary faintly. 

“Yes. What’s the matter now? ” The child 
had suddenly wriggled to a kneeling posture in 
his hold and had her little strangling arms round 
his neck in a tempest of sobs. 

[219] 


Refractory Husbands 


“I don’t want to give you a pi-ink pincushion 
— I don’t want to! I want my dollar! I want 

my dollar — to spend! I want Father, 

I want my dollar — my do-o-ol-lar! I want 
my 

“What did I tell you, Mary Langshaw?” 
cried Clytie. She appealed to her husband. 
“It’s just the way I knew she’d act. Now I 
suppose you’ll have to give it to her. Mary, 
be still a moment — her head is so hot!” 

“There, there!” said Langshaw soothingly. 
“She shall have her money this minute.” 

“Of course she doesn’t deserve it,” said Clytie, 
but with a tone of relief in her voice that seemed 
oddly greater than the occasion warranted. 
Mary had wound herself round him passionately; 
her sobs were dying away happily in long, deep 
breaths at intervals. Baby, being undressed on 
her mother’s lap, was laughing over some pieces 
of gilt paper. In the heart of this domesticity 
it was as if the father and mother were embarked 
with this little company on a full and swelling 
river of love, of which they felt the exquisite 
soothing ripples. 

Langshaw put his hand into his pocket. 

“No, I can’t give you the dollar this minute, 
little girl; father has only a ten-dollar bill. 
I’ll get it changed right after dinner. Isn’t 
dinner ’most ready, Clytie? ” 

“We’ll go down just as soon as I get Baby in 
[ 220 ] 


The Blossoming Rod 


bed/’ said the mother peacefully. “I don’t 
see why George isn’t here. Goodness! There 
he is now,” she added as a tremendous slam of 
the front door announced the fact. The next 
moment a small boy, roguishly blue-eyed and 
yellow-haired like Baby, with an extremely dirty 
face and a gray sweater half covered with mud, 
hurled himself into the room, surreptitiously 
tickling one of Baby’s bare feet and pulling 
Mary’s curls on his way to greet his father. 

“What have you been doing to get so dirty?” 

“Playing cops and robbers,” said the boy, 
serenely. His dimples appeared suddenly; his 
eyes lit up. “Say, mother” — he ’turned to her 
irresolutely — “shall I tell father now?” 

“Not until after dinner,” returned the mother 
inexorably. “ Go and make yourself clean ! ” 

“ May I put on my white silk tie? ” George’s 
white tie was the banner of festivity. 

“Yes.” 

“You rouse my curiosity. This seems to be a 
great occasion,” said Langshaw. 

“Oh, it is!” agreed the mother happily. 
She murmured in his ear as they went down- 
stairs: “ I hope you’ll show that you’re pleased, 
dear. You know sometimes when you really 
are pleased you don’t show it at once — and 
George has been trying so hard. If you’ll 
only show that you’re pleased ” 

“Yes — all right!” returned the husband a 
[ 221 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


little impatiently. Clytie had a sensitive con- 
sideration for her son’s feelings which struck 
him at times as exaggerated. He thought of 
the delightful secret back in his own mind; 
there was no reason for talking any more about 
the rod until he brought it; he would manage 
to replace the dollar abstracted from the reserve 
fund. 

If he gave absent answers during the meal 
Clytie seemed to be preoccupied also. Little 
Mary, who sat by him, tucked her hand into 
his as she prattled. 

“Now, George!” said his mother at last 
suddenly when the rice pudding had been 
finished. George rose, clean and red-cheeked, 
looking more than ever like a large edition of 
Baby, in spite of his jacket and knickerbockers, 
as he stepped over to his father with a new 
dignity and handed him a folded sheet of paper. 

“What’s this?” asked Langshaw genially 
opening it. He read aloud the words within, 
written laboriously in a round, boyish hand: 

To George Brander Langshaw, from father. 

You Oh me five dolers. 

Reseived paiment. 

“Hello! Hello! What does this mean?” 
asked Langshaw slowly with an unpleasant 
startled sensation that any such sum in con- 
nection with George was out of all reason. 

[ 222 ] 


The Blossoming Rod 


“ It means a bill for you from me!” announced 
George. His cheeks grew redder, his blue 
eyes looked squarely at his father. ‘TBs for 
this ! He pulled from his pocket a school 
report card divided into tiny ruled squares, 
filled with figures for half its length, and flung 
it down proudly on the table before his parent. 

“IBs the Deportment — since September. 
You said when Miss Skinner sent that last note 
home about me that if I could get a hundred in 
Deportment for every month up to Christmas 
you’d be willing to pay me five dollars. You 
can see there for yourself, father, the three one 
hundreds — no, not that line — that’s only 
fifty-five for spelling; nobody ever knows their 
spelling! Here is the place to look — in the 
Deportment column. I’ve tried awful hard to 
be good, father, to surprise you.” 

“The way that child has tried!” burst forth 
Clytie, her dark eyes drowned in sparkles. 
“And they’re so unfair at school — giving you a 
mark if you squeak your chair, or speak, or look 
at anybody; as if any child could be expected to 
sit like a stone all the time! I’m sure I love to 
hear children laughing — and you know yourself 
how hard it is for George to be quiet! We 
had a little talk about it together, he and I; 
and now you see! It’s been such work keeping 
his card from you each month when you asked 
for it. One day he thought he had a bad mark 

[223 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


and he couldn’t eat any dinner — you thought 
he was ill; but he went to Miss Skinner the 
next day and she took it off because he had 
been trying so hard to be good. Joe, why 
don’t you speak?” 

“ George, I’m proud of you!” said Langshaw 
simply. There was a slight huskiness in his 
voice; the round face and guileless blue eyes 
of his little boy, who had tried “awful hard to 
be good,” seemed to have acquired a new dignity. 
The father saw in him the grown-up son who 
could be depended upon to look after his mother 
if need were. Langshaw held out his hand as 
man to man; the two pairs of eyes met squarely. 
‘‘Nothing you could have done would have 
pleased me more than this, George. I value it 
more than any Christmas present I could have.” 

“Mother said you’d like it,” said the beaming 
George, ducking his head suddenly and kicking 
out his legs from behind. 

“And you’ll pay the five dollars?” supple- 
mented Clytie anxiously. 

“Surely!” said Langshaw. The glances of 
the parents met in one of the highest pleasures 
that life affords: the approval together of the 
good action of their dear child. “George can 
go out and get this ten-dollar bill changed.” 

“If you can’t spare it, father ” suggested 

the boy with some new sense of manliness, 
hanging back. 


[224] 


The Blossoming Rod 


“ I’m glad to be able to spare it,” said the 
father soberly. “It’s a good deal of money,” 
he added. “I suppose, of course, you’ll put 
it in the bank, George?” 

“Now you mustn’t ask what he’s going to do 
with it,” said Clytie. 

“Oh, isn’t it much!” cried little Mary. 

“Dear me, there’s the doorbell,” said Clytie. 
“Who can it be at this hour? Run, George, and 
see!” 

“It’s a letter for you, mother,” announced 
George, reappearing. “There’s a man in the 
hall, waiting for an answer.” 

“It looks like a bill,” said Clytie nervously, 
tearing open the envelope; “but I don’t owe 
any bill. Why, it’s two and a quarter, from the 
tailor, for fixing over my old suit last fall! I’m 
positive I paid it weeks ago. There’s some 
mistake.” 

“He says he’s been here three times, but you 
were out.” 

“Have you any money for it, Clytie?” asked 
her husband. 

Clytie looked as if a thunderbolt had struck 
her. 

“Yes, I have; but — oh, I don’t want to take 
it for that! I need every penny I’ve got.” 

“Well, there’s no need of feeling so badly 
about it,” said Langshaw resignedly. 

“Give the ten-dollar bill to the man, George, 
[225] 


Refractory Husbands 


and see if he can change it.” He couldn't 
resist a slight masculine touch of severity at 
her incapacity. “I wish you’d tend to these 
things at the time, Clytie, or let me know about 
them.” He took the money when George 
returned. “ Here’s your dollar now, Mary — 
don’t lose it again! — and your five, George. 
You might as well take another dollar yourself, 
Clytie, for extras.” 

He pocketed the remainder of the change 
carelessly. After his first pang at the encroach- 
ment on the reserve fund the rod had sunk so 
far out of sight that it was almost as if it had 
never been. He had, of course, known all 
along that he would not buy it. Even the 
sting of the “ Amount due” quickly evaporated. 

Little Mary gave a jump that bumped her 
brown curly head against him. 

“ You don’t know what I’m going to give you 
for Christmas!” she cried joyously. 

II 

Langshaw was one of those men who have an 
inherited capacity for enjoying Christmas. He 
lent it his attention with zest, choosing the 
turkey himself with critical care as he went 
through the big market in town, from whence 
he brought also wreaths and branches of holly 
that seemed to have larger and redder berries 
[ 226 ] 


The Blossoming Rod 


than could be bought in the village. On Christ- 
mas Eve he put up the greens that decorated 
the parlour and dining-room — a ceremony that 
required large preparations with a step-ladder, 
a hammer, tacks, and string, the removal of his 
coat, and a lighted pipe in one corner of his 
mouth; and which proceeded with such painstak- 
ing slowness on account of his coming down from 
the ladder every other moment to view the 
artistic effect of the arrangements, that it w r as 
only by sticking the last branches up any old 
way at Clytie’s wild appeal that he ever got it 
finished at all. 

Then he helped her fill the stockings, his own 
fingers carefully giving the crowning effect of 
orange and cornucopia in each one, and arranging 
the large packages below, after tiptoeing down 
the stairs with them so as not to wake the offici- 
ally sleeping children, who were patently stark 
awake, thrashing or coughing in their little beds. 
The sturdy George had never been known to sleep 
on Christmas Eve, always coming down the 
next day esthetically pale and with abnor- 
mally large eyes, to the feast of rapture. 

On this Saturday — Christmas Eve’s eve — 
when Langshaw finally reached home, laden 
with all the “last things” and the impossible 
packages of tortuous shapes left by fond rel- 
atives at his office for the children — one 
pocket of his overcoat weighted with the love- 
[227] 


Refractory Husbands 


box of really good candy for Clytie — it was 
evident as soon as he opened the hall door that 
something unusual was going on upstairs. 
Wild shrieks of “It’s father! It’s father!” 
rent the air. 

“It’s father!” 

“ Fardie ! Fardie, don’t come up ! ” 

“Father, don’t come up!” 

“Father, it’s your present!” 

There was hasty scurrying of feet, racing to 
and fro, and further shrieks. Langshaw waited, 
smiling. It was evidently a “boughten” gift 
then; the last had been a water pitcher, much 
needed in the household. He braced himself 
fondly for immense enthusiasm over this. 

An expression of intense excitement was 
visible on each face when finally he was allowed 
to enter the upper room. Mary and Baby rushed 
at him to clasp his leg, while his wife leaned 
over to kiss him as he whispered: 

“I brought out a lot of truck; it’s all in the 
closet in the hall.” 

George, standing with his hands in his pockets, 
proclaimed loudly, with sparkling eyes: 

“You nearly saw your present! It’s from 
mother and us. Come here, Baby, and pull 
brother’s leg. Say, father, do you like cut 
glass?” 

“O-oh!” came in ecstatic chorus from the 
other two, as at a delightful joke. 

[ 228 ] 


The Blossoming Rod 


“It’s a secret !” announced Baby, her yellow 
hair falling over one round, blue eye. 

“ I believe it’s a pony,” said the father. “I’m 
sure I heard a pony up here ! ” 

Shouts of renewed joy greeted the jest. 

All the next day, Christmas Eve itself, when- 
ever two or three of the family were gathered 
together there were secret whisperings, more 
scurryings, and frenzied warnings for the father 
not to come into the room. In spite of 
himself, Langshaw began to get a little curious 
as to the tobacco jar or the fire shovel, or what- 
ever should be his portion. He not only felt 
resigned to not having the trout-rod, but a sort 
of wonder also rose in him that he had been be- 
witched — even momentarily — into thinking 
he could have it. What did it matter anyway? 

“It’s worth it, old girl, isn’t it?” he said 
cryptically as he and Clytie met once un- 
expectedly in the hall, and he put his arm 
round her. 

“Yes!” answered his wife, her dark eyes 
lustrous. Sometimes she didn’t look much 
older than little Mary. “One thing though 
I must say: I do hope, dear, that — the children 
have been thinking so much of our present to 
you and saving up so for it — I do hope, Joe, 
that if you are pleased you’ll show it. So far 
as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter; but some- 
times — when, of course, I know how pleased 
[229] 


Refractory Husbands 


you really are — you don’t show it at once to 
others. That’s why I hope you’ll show it to- 
morrow if ” 

“ Great Scott! Clytie, let up on it! What 
do you want me to do — jump up and down 
and make a fool of myself?” asked her hus- 
band scornfully. “ You leave me alone ! ” 

It was Langshaw’s firm rule, vainly pro- 
tested even by his wife, that the household 
should have breakfast on Christmas Day 
before tackling the stockings — a hurried 
mockery of a meal, to be sure, yet to his mas- 
culine idea a reenforcement of food for the 
infant stomach before the long, hurtling joy 
of the day. The stockings and the piles under 
them were taken in order, according to age — 
the youngest first and the others waiting in 
rapt interest and admiration until their turn 
arrived — a pretty ceremony. 

In the delicious revelry of Baby’s joy, as 
her trembling, fat little fingers pulled forth 
dolls and their like, all else was forgotten 
until it was Mary’s turn, and then George’s 
and then the mother’s. And then, when 
he had forgotten all about it: “Now father!” 
There was seemingly a breathless moment while 
all eyes turned to him. 

“It’s father’s turn now; father’s going to 
have his presents. Father, sit down here 
on the sofa — it’s your turn now.” 

[230] 


The Blossoming Rod 


There were only a blue cornucopia and an 
orange and a bottle of olives in his stocking, a 
Christmas card from his sister Ella, a necktie 
from grandmamma, and nothing, as his quick 
eye had noted, under it on the floor; but now 
George importantly stooped down, drew a narrow 
package from under the sofa and laid it beside 
his father, pulling off the paper. Inside was a 
slim, longish, gray linen bag. Langshaw studied 
it for a moment before opening it. 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered !” he breathed, with a 
strange glance round at the waiting group and an 
odd, crooked smile. “I’ll be jiggered!” 

There in its neatly grooved sections lay the 
rod, ready to be put together — not a rod, but, 
as his eye almost unbelievingly reassured him, 
the rod — the ticket of the shop adorning it — 
in all its beauty of golden shellac and delicate 
tip. His fingers touched the pieces reverently. 

“Well, will you look at that! How did you 
ever think of getting it? ” 

“How did I think of it? Because you talked 
about it all the time,” said his wife scornfully, 
with her arms round his neck from behind, while 
the children flung themselves upon him. “Oh, 
I know you thought you didn’t; but you did 
just the same. George heard you too. We got 
Mr. Wickersham to pick it out. He said it 
was the one you wanted. And the reel — you 
haven’t noticed that box there — the reel is 

[ 231 ] 


Refractory Husbands 


the right kind, he says; and the line is silk — 
the best. There’s the book of flies too — six. 
Baby’s crazy over them! Mr. Wickersham 
said it was all just what you ought to have. 
We’ve been saving up for the longest time; 
but we had to wait, you see, for George’s 
deportment before the things could be bought. 
If it isn’t right ” 

“Right? Say, this is the finest present 
I ever had!” said Langshaw with glittering 
eyes and that little crooked smile. “It just 
beats everything!” 

He rose, scattering his adoring family, and, 
walking to the window, threw it open to the 
frosty December air and called across to a 
neighbour standing on the walk. 

“Want to come over here, Hendon? Got 
something to show you. Will you look at this! 
Present from my wife and the kids — been 
saving up for it. It’s a peach, I’ll tell you that! 
I’m going to take George off fishing this 

spring What? Well, come over later, 

when you’ve got time to take a good look at it.” 

“Do you like it, father?” came from three 
different voices at once. 

“Do I like it? You can just bet I do,” 
said Langshaw emphatically. He bent and 
kissed the three upturned faces, and leaned 
toward his wife afterward to press her sweet 
waiting lips with his; but his eyes, as if drawn 

[232] 


The Blossoming Rod 


by a magnet, were only on the rod — not the 
mere bundle of sticks he might have bought, 
but transformed into one blossoming with love. 

“And do you know, we hardly saw a thing 
of him all day!” Clytie proudly recounted 
afterward to her sister. “My dear, he would 
hardly take time to eat his dinner or speak to 
any one; he was out in the back yard with Henry 
Wickersham and Mr. Hendon until dark, 
flapping that rod in circles — the silliest thing! 
He nearly sent a hook into George’s eye once. 
George acted as bewitched as he did. Joe 
kept telling every single person who came along 
that it was ‘a present from his wife and the 
kids.’ He certainly showed that he was pleased.” 

“It’s been a pretty nice day, hasn’t it?” 
Langshaw said to his wife that Christmas night 
when the children were at last in bed. “Best 
Christmas I ever had! To think of you and the 
kids doing all this for me.” 

His hand rested lovingly on the rod, now 
once again swathed in the gray linen bag. 
He would have been the last to realize that, 
in his humble way, he typified a diviner Father- 
hood to the little family who trusted in his care 
for them — for all things came of him and of his 
own had they given him. 


THE END 


THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 









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